


Deceptions

by HPFandom_archivist



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Drama, Explicit Language, M/M, Romance, Sexual Content, Slash sex, Tragedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-17
Updated: 2011-07-08
Packaged: 2018-10-02 11:08:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 52,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10216640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HPFandom_archivist/pseuds/HPFandom_archivist
Summary: Harry Potter's sixth year at Hogwarts is set to be his most difficult yet. With the wizarding world on the brink of war, just who can he put his trust in? And what role will Draco Malfoy play - the boy who haunts Harry's dreams alongside Voldemort?





	1. The Calm Before A Storm

**Author's Note:**

> Note from SeparatriX, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [HP Fandom](http://fanlore.org/wiki/HP_Fandom_\(archive\)), which was closed for health and financial reasons. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in August 2016. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [HP Fandom collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/hpfandom/profile).

There are four things you really need to know before reading.

1\. This is going to be LONG!  
2\. Each chapter so far is roughly between 10,000 and 16,000 words.  
3\. It has a plot.  
4\. Harry/Draco is only hinted at for the first few chapters. By chapter four those hints become more apparent - at least from Harry's pov. However, it will take quite a few more chapters before things start to develop. If you are expecting the boys to jump into bed together right away, you will be disappointed. I want this story to develop their relationship at a sensible pace while staying in character. Therefore, they have a LOT of issues to deal with!

Mainly canon up to, and including, Order of the Phoenix. Roughly follows certain events from Half-Blood Prince and Deathly Hallows. Ignores epilogue completely.

Deceptions is my take on year six, and will be followed by a year seven sequel, From Within.

Expect copious amounts of angst, lashings of humour, some violence, and a healthy amount of dark!Harry. Character deaths (but I can safely say not Harry or Draco because that is something I will never write!), Quidditch, and top!Draco (although top!Harry is demanding that he has his moment and I might just have to give in!). There's even a 'songfic' in one of the chapters - not sure how that happened!  


* * *

_Disclaimer: Characters, locations and certain plot details of this chapter are owned by JK Rowling and her respective publishers. I do not own Harry Potter (unfortunately), and I am not making any money from this story._

 

**Chapter One**

**The Calm Before A Storm**

The summer of Harry Potter's sixteenth year elapsed, by his usual standards, rather peacefully. There were no boa constrictors to set free from the zoo, nor unexpected visits from well-meaning house-elves or midnight rides in flying Muggle cars. None of Vernon Dursley's obnoxious relatives came to stay; Aunt Marge herself had vowed never to set foot in Little Whinging again, although she couldn't quite remember why after her memory had been altered. And as for the Dementors, they hadn't been seen or heard of since deserting Azkaban several months earlier. Even the troubled dreams that had been plaguing Harry of late since the death of his godfather, Sirius, had ceased. Yet Harry couldn't relax, no matter how hard he tried. It was all far too quiet... like the calm before a storm. 

Much of the time was spent whiling away the long hours in his bedroom with Hedwig his sole companion, scrutinising copies of the Daily Prophet from cover to cover for anything of significance or trying to catch up on essays for school. Perhaps not surprisingly, Dudley was doing his level best to avoid him. The only times Harry so much as glimpsed his cousin was from his bedroom window as he came and went with Piers Polkiss and the rest of his gang of bullies. There was no doubt in his mind that his aunt and uncle had warned their son to stay away from him to prevent any of the usual friction between the two, something Harry felt was unnecessary as he suspected that having a Dementor sucking at his face last year was probably the real reason for Dudley's reluctance to be anywhere near him. 

Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia were barely speaking to him themselves following their encounter with Moody, Tonks and Arthur Weasley at King's Cross station at the end of term. The very thought of Mad-Eye Moody – or indeed _anyone_ from the Ministry of Magic – turning up on their doorstep or down their chimney to check on his well-being was almost certainly giving them sleepless nights. However, Aunt Petunia had made it clear to Harry upon his return – likely through fear of receiving another Howler from Albus Dumbledore – that under no circumstances would anyone try to force him to leave this time. This was followed by a pointed look at her husband, who mumbled something unintelligible and disappeared behind his newspaper. It was also made quite clear, nevertheless, that his presence was something which they would tolerate so long as he stayed out of their way in his room; even his meals were brought up on a tray and left outside his door. 

Normally, Harry would have welcomed this enforced isolation. But without any household chores to keep him busy or the verbal sparring with Dudley, which he had to admit he rather enjoyed, he found he had more time alone with his thoughts. And right now that was the last thing he needed. Finding a way to cope with the loss of the only father figure he had ever known was difficult enough. He didn't think he would ever forget the twisted look of horror on Sirius Black's face as he had fallen through the strange veiled arch in the Department of Mysteries. But the events of that fateful night last term had also revealed to Harry something that he wasn't quite sure he was ready to face. Something that he wasn't ashamed to admit, to himself at least, frightened him. He was, after all, only sixteen. He should be enjoying his teenage years, not worrying about some crackpot wizard who wanted him dead. 

Harry reached up and ran his fingers over the scar on his forehead. He had no choice though, that had been taken away from him before he was even born. There was nothing he could do to change things. And so, along with everyone else, he found himself playing a waiting game. Exactly what they were all waiting for he wasn't entirely sure, but he knew it wouldn't pass unnoticed. The beginning of the Second War was imminent, and Voldemort would make certain that when it happened the whole world would know about it. 

There were those who thought it had already started, but Harry believed differently. Yes, Voldemort was back, a fact that was at last being acknowledged by the Ministry of Magic. And yes, it appeared he had already set his twisted plans in motion with the mass breakout of his followers from Azkaban, and their recent infiltration of Ministry headquarters. But the worst was yet to come and Harry couldn't help feeling torn. Part of him was relieved that nothing had happened since the end of term, but the more realistic part of him knew it was just a matter of time and he almost wished Voldemort would do something to put an end to the interminable wait. 

Harry threw his quill aside with an agitated grunt. Not even his Defence Against the Dark Arts homework, his favourite subject at school, could keep his mind off what wasn't happening elsewhere. He pushed himself off his rumpled bed and padded barefoot to the window, absently ruffling Hedwig's snowy feathers as he passed her cage and receiving a soft peck in return. Outside, Privet Drive lay cloaked in darkness. A thick blanket of clouds hid the stars overhead from view and the only sign of the moon in the night sky was a faint silvery glow to the east. Harry stifled a yawn and peered down at Dudley's old watch which he had rescued from the bin last year. 

Almost two in the morning. 

He dragged himself up onto the window sill and sat looking out over the quiet street, hugging his knees to his chest. The nightmares may have stopped but he wasn't finding sleeping any easier. It didn't seem to matter how tired he was; the moment his head touched the pillow he was wide awake, so many things running through his mind: Ron, Hermione and the rest of Dumbledore's Army; the incident at the Ministry, when they had come face to face with Voldemort and his Death Eaters; Draco Malfoy's father, Lucius, being arrested by Ministry officials; a tiny revolving Sybill Trelawney making her prophecy; his own parents smiling at him from within the confines of the Mirror of Erised... 

Following Harry's discovery of the prophecy deep within the annals of the Ministry last term, Professor Dumbledore had opened up to him in a way he never had before. He had learned a lot of things that brought certain areas of his life into clarity, such as why he had been left with relatives who didn't want him after the deaths of his parents, the reason behind Snape's hatred for him, and not least of all why Voldemort wanted him dead. But Harry had a feeling he still didn't know everything, that there was a lot more the Hogwarts headmaster was withholding. Exactly what else was to come? Having found out that he must one day face Voldemort in what would be – for both of them – a life or death confrontation, how could it possibly get any worse? 

Harry's musings were interrupted by the soft creak of a door on the landing. A sliver of light illuminated the gap under his own door and he could hear his aunt's soft footsteps descending the stairs. He managed a wry grin; Moody really had given them sleepless nights. But then the grin fell from his face. Was it that? Or was it something else keeping her awake? Aunt Petunia knew enough about the wizarding world from having had a witch as a sister to know who Voldemort was and the threat that his return posed. Maybe it was weighing on her mind just as heavily as it was his. 

For the briefest of moments, Harry had never felt so close to his aunt. He could hear her in the kitchen, filling the kettle, and was suddenly struck by an overwhelming need to reach out to her. It was ridiculous really, he disliked her as much as she did him. But she _understood_ , and he would give anything to talk to someone – _anyone_ – who did. Ron and Hermione sent letters, but it wasn't the same as when they were together. Besides which, they were all under instruction from Dumbledore to be extra careful what they wrote about. They hinted at various things, but never in a way that would reveal anything important if the letters were intercepted. 

He really wished he could see them again before term started, but this year that wouldn't be possible. Hermione was on holiday in Italy with her family, whilst Ron and his sister, Ginny, had been packed off to Romania with their brother, Charlie. _'So that we won't mess in Order business,'_ Ron had complained in one of his letters. Harry smiled as he remembered their attempts to listen in on the Order of the Phoenix's meetings during their stay at number twelve, Grimmauld Place a year ago. But thinking about the ancestral home of the Black family brought Sirius to the forefront of his thoughts again. At that precise moment, Harry missed his two best friends more than he ever had before. 

He was about to leave the window and head downstairs when a sudden movement in the street below caught his eye. Harry instantly tensed, his eyes scanning the pavement at the bottom of the Dursleys' drive. He saw nothing at first, and was ready to put it down to his overwrought imagination when a shadow at the back of Uncle Vernon's car shifted. This time there was no mistaking it. Harry squinted into the darkness, straining his eyes to catch another glimpse. Something was definitely out there. He waited for what felt like an eternity, until a slight breeze shook the leaves of the bushy rhododendron in the middle of the lawn, drawing his attention. When he looked back at the car it was just in time to see a black shape shoot out from beneath and dart across the road. As it headed for the gate of the house opposite, a security light lit up and bathed it in a pool of golden light. It paused, turned its vivid green eyes to Harry and gazed at him for a moment, its mouth opening in a silent _'miaow'_ , white fangs gleaming. Then it was gone; over the gate and down the path in one swift dash. 

Harry let out the breath he hadn't realised he was holding and tried to laugh it off. It was only a cat, one of Mrs Figg's if he wasn't mistaken. Nothing to get spooked over. But the frown didn't leave his brow as he slithered off the sill, and the goose bumps on his arms had nothing to do with the night-time chill on the landing as he left his bedroom. There was something about the way the cat had stopped and looked at him which bothered him. He knew it was silly, but then he also knew that Mrs Figg's cats weren't quite as ordinary as they appeared. Dudley snorted in his sleep as Harry passed his bedroom door. And then something that had been nudging at the edge of Harry's thoughts finally butted in. Why was Privet Drive so dark? What had happened to the street lamps? Not one of them was lit. This dawning realisation wasn't what brought him to an abrupt halt at the top of the stairs, however, his hand gripping the bannister so hard that his knuckles turned white. It was the ear piercing scream that suddenly split the silence of the night in two, accompanied by a flash of green light from the kitchen that lit up the hallway and turned his blood to ice. 

_Aunt Petunia!_

But before Harry had time to react, Uncle Vernon came stumbling out onto the landing in his green-checked underpants and white vest, shaking a chintz duvet to the floor. "Petunia!" he bellowed, his face ashen. He didn't acknowledge his nephew's presence other than to push him aside in his hurry to get down the stairs. Still half-entangled in the duvet, however, he tripped and missed several steps, falling with a grunt onto his backside in the hall where he remained, winded. Harry, who was right behind him, managed to avoid him with a well-timed leap. He turned in the direction of the kitchen and pulled up short at the sight that greeted him. The conservatory doors were wide open and a hunched figure was crouched over the lifeless body of Aunt Petunia, dragging her awkwardly by the shoulders into the garden. The figure lifted his head as Harry appeared, and Harry's heart sank into his stomach. Ever since the Dementor attack last year, what he had feared most had happened. Voldemort had brought the fight to the Dursleys. 

Huffing and puffing somewhat, Uncle Vernon was struggling to his feet behind him. Harry wasted no time. He turned to him, grabbing him by the arms. "Upstairs," he hissed. "Get Dudley, and get out of the house!" His uncle blinked at him as if he had never seen Harry before. "Now!" Harry urged desperately, trying to turn him back towards the stairs. It didn't matter that these people had made his childhood years hell; at that precise moment in time it was irrelevant. Their lives were in danger, and Harry would do all he could to help them. Despite everything, they didn't deserve this. Nobody deserved this. 

But it was too late. A bewildered Vernon Dursley had looked over Harry's shoulder to see the limp body of his wife disappearing down the garden path. "Petunia!" he bellowed again, shoving Harry out of the way. Harry followed after him as he blundered through the kitchen, bits of a broken mug crunching beneath his feet. "Uncle Vernon!" he yelled. "It's no use. There's nothing you can do." He was oblivious to the front door banging open behind him. "You need to get out of here," he continued helplessly, his words falling on deaf ears. All his uncle was concerned about was his wife, he didn't understand the danger that he was putting himself in. 

Harry hesitated, unsure what to do, and in that split second of indecision someone shouted his name from the hallway. Harry looked back and for the first time in his life actually found himself wishing that this _was_ one of his nightmares. Arabella Figg was advancing towards him in a flowery dressing gown and slippers, a lurid pink hairnet covering her rollered hair and, to Harry's utter astonishment, brandishing a wand. "Get down, boy," she demanded, and Harry promptly dropped to his knees just in time to see a flash of yellow light shoot over him and strike Uncle Vernon on the back of the head. 

The effect was immediate. Just like the characters in the Saturday morning cartoons that Dudley still watched, Vernon Dursley froze in mid-step, his feet not even touching the ground. Then, almost in slow motion, he toppled forward like a felled tree, coming to rest face down on the gravel path with a heavy crunch. Harry winced and turned to gape questioningly at Mrs Figg as she reached his side and extended a wrinkled hand to him. 

"Stunned him," she said by way of an explanation, then peered at the body and added faintly, "I hope..." Harry noticed the old lady was shaking as she helped him to his feet.

"But..." Harry stared at her. "How?" He looked at the wand that she was gripping tightly in a manner that did little to instil confidence. "I thought you were a Squib?" 

Mrs Figg shushed him with her hands. "Let's get you out of here," she whispered, nodding her head at the stooped figure now stood at the end of the garden. Petunia Dursley lay in a crumpled heap at his feet. 

Harry looked from the wand to Mrs Figg, and then to his uncle. "But how did you–?" he began. 

"That's not important," his elderly neighbour interrupted, a nervous edge to her voice. "What _is_ important is getting you to safety while we still can." She took Harry by the arm and attempted to usher him towards the front door, but he shook free and turned back. The figure was watching him from beneath his hooded cloak. "Come on, boy," the old lady warned in a low voice. "There may be more of them, and a simple stun won't be much use if there is." 

Harry shook his head. The shock and disbelief at what had happened was subsiding, overtaken by a seething anger which left no room for common sense. He had recognised Aunt Petunia's killer and was incensed by the gall that the man had shown in coming here. He gritted his teeth. "I don't care how many Death Eaters might be out there," he stated firmly, "he's not getting away again." A faint whisper in the back of his mind urged him on. 

"This isn't the time or the place," Mrs Figg replied in exasperation, but seeing the stubborn look on his face, she pressed the wand she was clutching into his hand without another word and hobbled through the conservatory after him, her small beady eyes peering all around as they reached the doors. 

Harry paused. "Wait here," he said softly. 

"I don't like this..." Mrs Figg hissed. 

Harry's reply was swallowed up in a muted curse as he trod on something that screeched loudly, almost making him jump out of his skin. 

"Twinkle!" Mrs Figg gasped, bending clumsily to extract the large black feline's claws from where it had embedded them in Harry's ankle. Harry's eyes watered as she pulled them free. From the look of rebuke she gave him as she straightened with the offending creature cradled in her arms, he felt sure she had been less than gentle on purpose. He shook his head in irritation. "Just... wait here." Harry's fingers tightened on the unfamiliar wand as he stepped cautiously outside and scanned the shadowed garden. Nothing moved. Steeling his resolve, he slowly made his way down the path, stepping carefully over the prostrate form of Vernon Dursley. 

The figure at the end of the garden shuffled his feet warily as Harry approached. He had the air of someone who wanted to be anywhere other than here, which wasn't at all surprising given his history with the Potter family. They stood facing each other a short distance apart, Harry trying as hard as he could not to look down into the horror-stricken, wide-eyed face of his dead aunt. Images of Cedric Diggory's face, also struck down by the killing curse, filled his head instead and it was all Harry could do to focus on the scruffy, smelly little rodent-faced man in front of him. 

Peter Pettigrew, betrayer of Harry's parents, snuffled and looked up at him, a sly smile revealing his prominent yellow front teeth. "Harry Potter..." 

Harry fixed him with a hard, steady gaze but remained silent.

Nonplussed, Pettigrew lifted his right arm out in front of him and slowly clenched and unclenched the solid silver hand attached to it, admiring it as he had done when Voldemort first bestowed it upon him. "Do you remember the last time we met?" he snivelled. "I hope the wound to your arm healed as well as mine..." 

Harry's shoulders tensed. The last time he'd had the misfortune of being in his company, Pettigrew had sliced a deep cut into Harry's arm for a few drops of blood before slicing off his own hand and proceeding to resurrect Voldemort with some form of archaic magic. The cut itself had healed well thanks to the skill of Madam Pomfrey, the Hogwarts school nurse, although there was a resulting scar which irritated Harry more than he ever let on. It was a constant reminder of the part he had been forced to play in Voldemort's return; something that conflicted sharply with the scar he was renowned for – the lightning bolt on his forehead. The scar that had formed from the very strike that had destroyed Voldemort in the first place. What angered Harry even more was that both of these scars were tied to deaths that he in some way blamed himself for. He often wondered how many more of these scars he would have to bear before it was all over. 

Pettigrew was leering up at him from the hooded cowl of his cloak, awaiting Harry's reaction. Harry fought back the anger inside and said simply, "Why?" 

Pettigrew immediately glanced down to the body at his feet and gave a wheezy chuckle. "Not as pretty as her sister," he said slyly, poking Petunia Dursley with a grubby foot. 

"Why?" Harry repeated in a tight voice, trying to hold back the urge to wrestle this foul creature head first into the compost bin behind him and leave him there for the Ministry to find. 

Pettigrew looked up at him, his eyes narrowed quizzically. "What's this, Harry Potter, upset at your aunt's death?" He pushed her more forcibly, his eyes glued to Harry's face. "After the way they treated you, you should be on your knees thanking me." He broke into raspy laughter. 

"Never mind her," Harry forced out through gritted teeth. He took a step forward, clenching Mrs Figg's gnarled wand in his fist. "I'm talking about you. Why did you do this? Wasn't murdering my parents enough for you?" 

The laughter died abruptly. Pettigrew opened his mouth, seemingly to protest, but Harry ploughed on regardless. "Oh, you may not have done it with your own hands," he said, struggling to keep his voice under control, "but you are as much responsible for their deaths as Voldemort is." 

Pettigrew shuffled backwards, his eyes darting between the wand and Harry's face. Harry took another step forward, the faint whisper in his mind goading him as he slowly raised the wand. _'Do it, do it!'_ When he spoke again his voice didn't sound like his own. "I should have let Sirius kill you when he had the chance." 

Pettigrew chuckled nervously and shook his head. "You wouldn't," he stated, but there was a waver of uncertainty which belied his words. 

"Wouldn't I?" Harry replied. But before he had finished speaking he was on the ground, breathing in dirt, his head throbbing. He coughed and spluttered, but when he tried to lift himself up he was pushed down again by a foot on the back of his neck. He twisted his head to one side with difficulty. 

Pettigrew had slumped to his knees, his body shaking with renewed laughter. "I have a message for you," he wheezed, "from the Dark Lord." He grabbed hold of Petunia's colourless hand in his equally colourless silver one and promptly Disapparated with a loud crack, his final words echoing after him. "You're running out of places to hide, Harry Potter..." 

The pressure holding him down lifted. Harry's fingers dug into the dry soil of the flower bed as he scrambled to his feet. The wand was missing. He opened his mouth to Summon it back to him, but before he could utter a word someone shouted _'Crucio!'_ and he collapsed in agony, writhing on the ground as intense pain exploded throughout his body. He had suffered identical pain once before, at the hands of Voldemort, but it was no easier to bear for the experience. Everything else was forgotten as the white-hot stabbing sensation of hundreds of phantom blades took over, leaving Harry crippled and gasping for air. He vaguely wondered where Mrs Figg was before another Cruciatus Curse gripped his body, forcing him to curl into a ball, screaming in agony. Every muscle in his body contracted into cramp-like spasms; not one part of him was spared. His screams dissolved into huge gulping sobs as the curse subsided, but the respite was brief as another racked his body, twisting him horribly, almost lifting him from the ground. When it was over he was barely conscious.

"You couldn't, _Harry_." His name was spat at him. He fought against the blanket of fog clouding his head. The voice was muffled, yet it sounded vaguely familiar. "You don't have it in you to use the Killing Curse. That's your weakness." 

This time, as a final curse struck him and he slipped into the darkness that opened up before him, he was certain. He had heard that voice before. 

And it shocked him to his very core when he realised exactly _whose_ voice it was.

* * *

Harry had been sitting on Mrs Figg's back doorstep for what seemed like hours when the door opened and a shaft of light lit up the backyard. A fox, which had been nuzzling in a bag of rubbish beside the bin, apparently oblivious to Harry's presence, shot through a hole in the fence and disappeared into the night. Albus Dumbledore pulled the door closed behind him and sat down on the step beside Harry without so much as a word or even a glance.

Harry had regained consciousness in Arabella Figg's living room, stretched out on a threadbare sofa that bore the rather pungent aroma of cat. A knitted blanket covered his legs, and his head rested on a very flat, uncomfortable pillow. He had no recollection of how he had gotten there, or even why he was there until he tried to sit up and received a sharp stabbing pain in the head for his effort. It was then that the night's events came flooding back to him in a sudden rush, leaving him dizzy and weak. He collapsed back on the sofa, staring up at the moonlit ceiling, watching the long shadows of a tree's branches swaying above him. Aunt Petunia's deathly white face popped unbidden into his head and a heavy feeling of guilt settled upon his shoulders. Harry had felt the same unbearable guilt following Cedric Diggory's murder the year before, but this threatened to be much worse. 

He thought back to that night in June, eight long weeks ago. The night that Sirius had died. Upon their return from the Ministry, Dumbledore had sat Harry down in his office and they had shared a lengthy and at times difficult conversation, during which Dumbledore had explained his reasoning for leaving Harry with his aunt all those years ago. But Harry realised now that he still didn't know _why_ Petunia had agreed to it. She must have known the danger in which she was placing herself and her family, yet she had taken him in anyway. And now she was dead. She had wanted no part in his or his parents' lives, so what had driven her to give him her protection despite all of that? Was it really through fear of Dumbledore as he had been led to believe? 

These thoughts played over and over in his head until they became so muddled that it was Pettigrew who was telling a Harry-who-looked-like-Dudley why he had been left with his aunt, while Dumbledore was standing in the Dursleys' back garden with a dead Lily at his feet. Eventually, the loud crack of someone Apparating jolted Harry from his troubled reverie and forced his mind back to the present. 

The Ministry would be crawling all over Privet Drive by now, making sure that the residents were aware of nothing that had happened that night. If that wasn't one of them arriving here at Mrs Figg's, then it would only be a matter of time. The longer he could avoid having to answer their questions, the better. Harry struggled up off the settee, trying in vain to set his glasses straight on his nose. The reason they were askew, he soon discovered, was due to a large cotton pad on the side of his head, held in place by a tightly wound bandage which he immediately ripped off and threw onto the pillow. The room was cold and unlit except for a small fringed lamp in one corner that barely illuminated the little round table upon which it stood. Harry wrapped the blanket around him and headed for the door. He could hear muted voices coming from the other side. Cracking the door open slightly, he peered out. The hallway was in darkness, but he could make out three shadowy figures silhouetted in the open front doorway. The kitchen door opposite stood ajar, the room beyond also in darkness. As the front door closed, one of the figures muttered _'Lumos'_ and the tip of his wand flared into light. It was Remus Lupin. 

His was the first friendly face Harry had seen in months, and he had to fight back the urge to call out to him. As he had feared upon hearing the Apparate, the two men with the former Hogwarts teacher were very clearly Ministry officials. Remus showed them into the front room, but before he could shut the door there was a loud wail and the sound of smashing china. Harry jumped in shock, all his nerves on edge. The sound of someone sobbing uncontrollably reached his ears, together with more than one soothing voice doing their best to calm the situation. But whatever the reason for the minor disruption, it gave him the opportunity to flee unnoticed into the kitchen. 

Harry wished that he had his wand with him as he fumbled blindly along the wall. Eventually his fingers brushed over the plastic light switch and he flicked it on, bathing the kitchen in a harsh white glare. Grabbing a glass from the cupboard behind the door, he filled it with water at the sink and downed it in one go, the cool liquid a welcome relief to his dry, gritty throat. He reached for another, pausing to feel his head where the bandage had been. It was swollen and sore to the touch, and his fingers came back sticky from partially dried blood. He rinsed them under the tap, but as he watched the red droplets trickle down the plughole he was hit by another wave of dizziness and was forced to clutch at the work surface to steady himself. The walls seemed to loom in on him from either side and the air in the room suddenly felt thick and heavy, making breathing difficult. Tight bands of panic constricted around his chest, adding to the feeling of suffocation. He desperately needed some fresh air before he collapsed again. 

The slabbed backyard was small compared to the neighbouring houses, something that wasn't helped by a large dilapidated shed in one corner. The mismatched fencing was missing in places and there wasn't a blade of grass to be seen, just a handful of plant tubs dotted here and there. Harry knew from his occasional stays in the past that Mrs Figg rarely set foot out here. He shut the back door quietly behind him and slid down it, sinking onto the cold step. Pulling the blanket tightly around his shoulders, he closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the door. 

It was here that Dumbledore found him some time later. Harry had no idea how long the Hogwarts headmaster had been at the house, but he was certain no one else had Apparated in. Neither of them spoke for a while; Harry because he didn't know where to start, and Dumbledore just content to wait. It was Harry who eventually broke the silence. "The Ministry officials..?" 

"Have left," Dumbledore replied. 

There was another silence. "I didn't hear them go..." 

"That would be because they left via the Floo Network, taking Arabella with them." Dumbledore appeared less than happy with the situation. He clasped his hands together in his lap and finally looked at Harry, who was staring off into the darkness. "It was Arabella they were here for, Harry, not you. They felt putting her through a Side-Along Apparition would be too much for her tonight." Dumbledore patted Harry's arm. "However," he added, "I daresay that someone from the Ministry will wish to speak with you at some point today." 

Harry chose not to think about that. "Mrs Figg..." He turned to look at Dumbledore. "She can use magic?" 

Dumbledore smiled a secret smile. "So it would appear. That was quite a Stun she performed on Vernon Dursley, I fear it will take him a while to recover." 

"But–" Harry's brow wrinkled in confusion. "Professor, I don't understand. Does this mean she's a witch?" 

"Of sorts." Dumbledore sighed heavily. He knew Harry's interest in Arabella Figg was his way of trying to avoid talking about the night's other events, so he would indulge him for as long as was necessary. "When I arrived here tonight, Arabella was in quite a state," he explained. "I managed to have a reasonably lucid talk with her before Adlow and Hunt from the Improper Use of Magic Office arrived, and from what I could gather she has been taking a Kwikspell course to learn how to perform magic." 

Harry was instantly reminded of the Hogwarts caretaker, Argus Filch, another Squib who in the past had used a Kwikspell course for the same purpose with no apparent success. "There's no law against that though, is there?" Harry asked. "The use of Kwikspell courses?" 

"No, Harry, there's no law against using them. They are certainly not illegal; deceptive perhaps, but not illegal. For Squibs who believe what these courses claim to offer, the end result is usually nothing more than a financial loss." 

"So what do the Ministry want with her?" 

"Well, I'm afraid that Arabella is a rare exception." Dumbledore shifted uncomfortably on the step. "She is, as I think you saw for yourself, not a Squib after all but simply one whose magic has remained dormant. What the Kwikspell course has done is stimulate it just enough for her to be able to use it, albeit to a much lesser extent than is considered normal. I doubt it would have been quite the issue at any other time, but given the present situation that we all find ourselves in, the Ministry has introduced new laws concerning use of magic. Unfortunately for Arabella, she was unaware that her new-found talent – however small – meant she would have to register as a witch, and the Ministry is not impressed." 

Harry glanced up at Mrs Figg's house. For the Ministry to be tightening up on something it would normally consider a trivial matter was a sign of just how serious things were becoming. "What will happen to her?" he asked. 

"Nothing," Dumbledore replied. "I have spoken with Mafalda Hopkirk at the Improper Use of Magic Office, and she has assured me that given the circumstances, all Arabella will be required to do is complete registration papers and then she will be free to return home." 

Harry nodded and lapsed back into silence. Dumbledore waited patiently. Finally, Harry whispered, "Why did they kill her, Professor?" 

"I think you already know the answer to that question." 

"To break the protection charm." That was the one thing that had been clear to Harry all along. "But why now, Professor? Why not fifteen years ago? Or five years ago? If it was as easy as someone walking into the house and killing my aunt, why hasn't Voldemort done it before now?" 

"Fifteen years ago," Dumbledore reminded him, "Voldemort was nothing more than a shadow of his former self, survival his sole concern. Even as recently as eighteen months ago he was powerless to do anything about you. It was only with his resurrection that you became the focus of his attention once again." 

"So, why not then?" 

"The truth is, Harry, that the Dursley house has been protected by more than just the charm placed upon it by myself. Its location was a closely guarded secret with only a trusted few being privy to that information – initially just myself, Professor McGonagall, and Hagrid. And, of course, Arabella. More recently, upon its reformation, the Order of the Phoenix members." Harry opened his mouth, but Dumbledore pre-empted what he was about to say. "With the exception of Severus Snape," he emphasised, looking pointedly at the young man sitting beside him, "who had no desire to know." Harry closed his mouth again and listened on in silence. 

"Following your re-emergence into the wizarding world and subsequent arrival at Hogwarts," Dumbledore continued, "those in the most senior positions at the Ministry also had to be informed. It was then that added measures were put in place to protect Privet Drive, namely an Occultus Charm. Similar to the charm placed on Hogwarts," Dumbledore supplied at Harry's questioning look, "except it works in reverse in that only Muggles may see through it. In your case, unless they knew the exact address of the Dursley house, anyone other than a Muggle would have been unable to find it. And you alone have been the one to decide who, in addition to those I've mentioned, it was given to." Seeing Harry's surprised expression, Dumbledore leaned in and said with a conspiratorial smile, "I didn't think for one moment you would give your home address to someone you didn't absolutely trust." 

Harry returned the smile faintly. "Still, Professor, it would have been nice to have known." 

Dumbledore gave a slight apologetic nod, and then his face grew serious as he peered at Harry intently. He would get no pleasure from admitting what he was about to. "As you well know, the only time its security was compromised was when Dolores Umbridge herself sent Dementors here." Dumbledore paused. It was vital that Harry should realise the importance of this. "Her memory was subsequently altered, and she has no recollection of any Privet Drive." 

Harry met Dumbledore's solemn gaze with a feeling of growing apprehension as he read between the man's words. "What are you saying, Professor?" 

"What I'm saying, Harry, is that it appears we have a leak amongst the people we trust most." 

The words hung in the air between them, their meaning settling heavily on Harry's shoulders as he struggled with the fact that someone they both knew, and had placed their trust in, had betrayed them. The first person that came to mind had unwittingly ruled himself out long ago. With Snape not an option, Harry focused on those he distrusted almost as much. "The Ministry," he muttered. "It has to be someone in the Ministry." 

Dumbledore smiled sadly. "That would be the more favourable outcome, given the alternatives. But I'm afraid, Harry, that the truth may be something neither of us wish to face." 

Harry stared down at the ground. Aunt Petunia's face was no longer haunting him. Now it was the faces of those closest to him. Lupin, Tonks, the Weasleys, Mad-Eye... all the Order members who had become like a second family to him in many ways. He didn't want to think of any of them doing such a thing. It just wasn't possible. 

"Anyway, Harry..." Dumbledore's voice seemed to come from afar. Harry was barely able to hear him amidst the inner turmoil he was experiencing. "I think the attack tonight is Tom Riddle's way of saying enough is enough." When there was no response, Dumbledore carried on. "I must say, he has made a quite brilliant move in sending one of his lowest-ranked Death Eaters to carry out such an attack. He's shown his strength to his supporters but, more importantly, to those who stand against him." 

Still no response. 

"I think we can fully expect the war to start within the next few weeks," Dumbledore finished solemnly, attempting to impart the nature of the situation in the tone of his voice. But Harry only nodded distantly, and Dumbledore quickly realised he was in danger of overloading him. He had been put through a tremendous amount for one night and it wasn't over yet. The threat of war would have to be addressed another day, when it could be given the attention it rightfully warranted. Dumbledore smiled to himself. He had to admire Harry's inability to be fazed by something which would have struck fear into the hearts of most people. It was that, if nothing else, which was going to see him through what lay ahead. 

"There was somebody else there..." Harry announced suddenly, the memory popping into his head from nowhere. "With Wormtail." 

Dumbledore nodded. That was the next matter he had wanted to address. He touched a finger to the throbbing wound on Harry's head. "We had surmised that already. Physical violence is hardly Peter Pettigrew's style." He peered closely at Harry. "Do you remember who it was?" 

Harry frowned, desperately searching his memory for the identity of his attacker. "I didn't see their face," he said instinctively, "it was only their voice I heard. But it was someone I knew." He rubbed his forehead. "I just can't remember who..." Harry's voice trailed off as he probed at the edges of a ragged hole within his mind. His eyes met Dumbledore's as he began to realise what had happened to him. "It's like it's been ripped out of my memory..." he whispered.

Dumbledore's brow creased and he nodded his confirmation. "It would seem that someone has erased part of your memory. Unfortunately there's no easy way to retrieve it, and the after-effects can be horrific. However, the fact that you remember that there _is_ something to remember in the first place is hopeful. It indicates a less than successful Obliviate, perhaps due to inexperience or haste. Let us hope that in time something will prompt the memory to return." 

"Isn't there any other way we can identify who it was?" Harry asked in frustration. He knew he was clutching at straws because he already knew what the answer would be, but he had a feeling that the identity of his mystery assailant was something they needed to find out. The sooner, the better. 

Dumbledore shook his head. "Had it been someone underage, then yes." His blue eyes twinkled. "You know that better than most." 

Harry smiled in spite of the seriousness of the situation. 

"We've detected traces of several spells tonight in the immediate vicinity of the Dursley house," continued Dumbledore, "all of which can be accounted for, including the use of an Obliviate. But that tells us little as your uncle required one. We can't distinguish how many were cast, and without the wand used we cannot begin to trace by who." 

"What about Mrs Figg? She was there, didn't she see anything?" 

What sounded suspiciously like a snort of laughter escaped Dumbledore. "It would appear that Arabella, fearing for the safety of her cat, had popped inside to shut it in the house. Which is where Remus found her; she had been locked in." 

Harry grinned and shook his head, and Dumbledore chuckled in response. But the moment of lightheartedness was short-lived. 

"You were both very lucky tonight," Dumbledore said suddenly. "Confronting a Death Eater with an unknown wand could have had a disastrous outcome, Harry. Not to mention the fact that it was so obviously a trap you walked into. You allowed your judgement to be clouded by your desire to see Peter Pettigrew pay and in the process put your own life, as well as that of Arabella's, in danger." 

Harry's face had grown solemn as Dumbledore spoke. He could not deny the truth of his words. He had been so focused on Pettigrew that he had not looked at the bigger picture. 

"Do not make the mistake of underestimating any of Voldemort's Death Eaters," Dumbledore added, gazing into the night. "Whilst it may be true that they are under orders not to kill you, those orders will not stretch to torture, be it mental or physical. I know that you were subjected to the Cruciatus Curse tonight." 

"Several times," Harry mumbled. 

Dumbledore glanced sideways at him briefly, then resumed his study of the shadows. "I doubt very much that I need to remind you of what happened to the Longbottoms. Voldemort only wants you alive; in what condition he gets you is irrelevant to him." 

Harry nodded mutely. 

"Keep in mind, too, that they could have taken you with them tonight even if that was not their initial intention. You gave them the perfect opportunity. Fortunately, Arabella's warning reached Remus just in time." Dumbledore fell quiet, giving Harry time to dwell on his words. 

"Are they okay?" Harry asked after a while. "Uncle Vernon and Dudley..." 

"Your uncle is fine," Dumbledore replied, "if a little the worse for wear when we found him. Arabella's Stun really was quite a powerful one for someone of her inexperience. Your cousin, I am surprised to say, managed to sleep through it all." 

Harry wasn't at all surprised. Nothing woke a sleeping Dudley. "What will happen to them now?" 

"Your uncle has had his memory of tonight erased, and both have had their memories altered." Dumbledore hesitated and gave Harry a searching gaze, unsure what the reaction would be to his next words. "We felt it wise for them to retain as little memory of you as possible." 

Harry blinked in surprise. He hadn't expected that. "How little is 'little'?" 

"Only that you are Petunia's nephew, who lived with them here in Surrey for a time. Nothing more. As for what will happen to them now, they will be moved to the safe house we had intended to evacuate them to on the eve of your seventeenth birthday..." Dumbledore faltered as Harry bowed his head deep into his chest. "I assure you," he promised, "they will be taken care of." 

Harry shook his head. "It's not that, Professor. I know this is the best thing for everyone. It's just that..." 

Dumbledore placed a reassuring hand on Harry's shoulder. 

"I know they never wanted me, but Aunt Petunia was the closest thing I had left to my mum. In a way it's as if Voldemort has succeeded in taking away what little family I had left." 

Dumbledore squeezed Harry's shoulder gently. "You have more family than anyone could ever wish for, Harry." 

Harry smiled and bowed his head again. Talking of the Dursleys had brought him back to the reason for why his aunt had taken him in all those years ago. He almost felt that he owed it to her to learn the truth. "Aunt Petunia," he continued. "She hated me, yet she gave me somewhere to live where she knew I would be protected." Harry was visibly confused, trying to reconcile the conflicting facts. "I've never thought about it much before tonight, but why? I mean, I know you had something to do with it. But she didn't have to take me in." He looked questioningly at Dumbledore. "Did she?" 

Dumbledore shook his head. "No, Harry, she was under no compulsion to look after you other than the one she placed upon herself." He looked at the young man sitting beside him, the young man who he had seen grow so much over the last few years, and decided that Petunia Dursley owed him the truth. "Your aunt never hated you, Harry. Not truly. She was, however, a very stubborn woman who buried her emotions deep inside. She harboured a bitter resentment of your mother which, upon her passing, she transferred to you. In Petunia's eyes, Lily had everything that she wanted but could never have: an aptitude for magic, a new life at Hogwarts, and eventually the love of the man she herself cared for." 

Harry was visibly shocked at this revelation. "My father?' he whispered in disbelief. 

"No, Harry, not James." Dumbledore had said as much as he was prepared to. The elderly wizard rose to his feet and turned to look down at Harry. "Petunia turned her back on a world that it was clear she could never be a part of. What she became is the woman you knew. But there was a time when she and your mother were inseparable." And he slipped through the back door leaving Harry alone with his thoughts.

* * *

The dark sky was slowly being washed a deep shade of blue when Harry entered Mrs Figg's kitchen to find Dumbledore sitting at the table, stroking a large ginger cat which had curled up on his lap and was purring loudly. It reminded him of Hermione's cat, Crookshanks, a big ball of fluff with a squashed face. Dumbledore looked up at him expectantly, his face tired and strained.

"What happens now?" Harry asked him. 

Dumbledore picked up the cat as he stood and placed it on the floor where it rubbed itself happily against the headmaster's robes, twisting and turning and eventually rolling over onto its back. "Well, suffice it to say that you are no longer safe here." 

"Am I safe anywhere?" Harry couldn't hide the bitterness in his voice. 

"At this precise moment, there is only one place I would consider safe for you." 

"The Burrow?" Harry asked hopefully. 

"No, not The Burrow this time, I'm afraid." Dumbledore suddenly looked every bit as old as he was rumoured to be. "It was targeted earlier tonight in a Death Eater attack, possibly to divert attention away from you." 

Harry was aghast at this news. He gazed at Dumbledore, a knot of fear and dread in his stomach making it impossible to voice the question that hovered on his lips. 

"The Weasleys are fine," Dumbledore reassured him. "Their home, however, was destroyed. They have been moved to Grimmauld Place until we can make other arrangements." Dumbledore beckoned Harry to him and gripped him firmly by the shoulders. "Harry, there's something you need to be aware of. Sirius has left Grimmauld Place to you." 

Harry's initial reaction was to push Dumbledore away but the man held him steadfast. "I don't want it, Professor." Harry was vehement. It had never been a proper home to Sirius, and he saw no reason to hold on to it. "I never want to go back there. It belongs to the Blacks, not me. Let them have it." 

Dumbledore's grip tightened and he shook Harry slightly. "I understand how you feel, but there are other things you must take into consideration." 

Harry heard the urgent undertone to Dumbledore's voice. He studied his face, saw the keenness in his eyes and realised what he was intimating at. Harry's temper flared up instantly. "Let me guess... The Order. That's what it's always about, isn't it? Your precious bloody Order of the Phoenix, made up of Death Eaters and now, it seems, traitors too." Harry's eyes flashed with anger as weeks of being forced to cope alone with the suppressed hurt over the loss of Sirius, and with no contact from anyone besides the occasional short letter from Ron and Hermione, rushed through him. "The Order, who couldn't stop my parents from dying. Or Cedric Diggory. Or my aunt. The Order, who has to hide away and work in secrecy because the Ministry of Magic refuses to listen to it, who has to rely on a Death Eater as its source of information; a Death Eater you can't even be sure is loyal to you. The Order, that keeps me in the dark about everything, yet hides behind me whenever Voldemort is around. That wants me to risk my life, but gives me nothing in return. The Order, that–" 

"That your parents were members of, and believed in," Dumbledore cut in quietly. He had anticipated Harry's emotion-fuelled outburst and knew it was something he had to allow him to express. He released Harry as he felt the tension drain abruptly from his shoulders. Harry turned and slumped against the table, leaning on it heavily, his hands balled into fists. After a short while, he mumbled, "I'm sorry." 

Dumbledore weighed the delicacy of the situation and chose his next words carefully. "Sirius left Grimmauld Place to you for a reason. Not because it's the headquarters of the Order, although that may have been a factor. He trusted you, his godson, with it because he knew you would prevent it from returning to his family and allowing it to be used for the purposes of ill intent like before." 

Harry was silent. 

"However, I cannot deny that in accepting ownership of Grimmauld Place you would be ensuring the continued security of the Order." When there was no response, Dumbledore added softly, "Whatever you may think, we are working in your best interests." 

Harry nodded wearily. "I know." 

"There's also the small matter of Kreacher." 

Harry grimaced at the mention of the treacherous house-elf. 

"As long as the house is without an owner, it's only a matter of time before he uses his freedom to seek out another of the Black family. We cannot risk him falling into the hands of either the Malfoys or the Lestranges with the information that he has been privy to. Should that happen not only will the Order be compromised, but also Grimmauld Place itself." 

Harry's thoughts returned to the Weasleys, who had already lost one home that night, and suddenly he understood why it was so important for the Black house to remain in the hands of the Order. It really was the only place where they were all assured of complete safety. He sighed in resignation. "What do I need to do?" 

"Travel with me now to Grimmauld Place. Your arrival there will signify acceptance of ownership, and Kreacher will be bound into serving you. The rest I shall leave in your hands; I am confident you will find a way to ensure his loyalty to you." 

Harry's irrational half was putting up a desperate fight, yet he knew deep down that come the cold light of day he would regret not doing everything he could to help the Order. What he had said was unfair; he knew how much they were doing for him. But he couldn't help feeling like a pawn in their much larger game, a game which he had little control over. He needed Dumbledore to understand that he was no longer a child who needed protecting from the truth, something he felt was imperative if he was to stand any chance of defeating Voldemort. Eventually he straightened from the table. He didn't need to say anything, he knew Dumbledore had never doubted what his decision would be. "There's something I need to do first." 

Dumbledore smiled slightly. "I would hope that involves changing into something more appropriate?" 

Harry glanced down and realised with a start that he was still barefoot and in his pyjamas. He smiled and nodded. "That, too." He met Dumbledore's eyes. "I want to go back to the Dursleys'. Just for a moment." 

Dumbledore didn't question why. He simply nodded. "There are some of your clothes in the front room for you to change into, along with your wand. I shall be waiting here when you're ready."

* * *

Harry spent several long minutes in the Dursleys' house, walking from room to room. He felt oddly detached and empty, almost as if he was seeing it through the eyes of someone else. The house seemed different. It had never felt like home to him, just somewhere he stayed during the school holidays. But now it wasn't even that. His room had been cleared of what few possessions he owned, the majority of which had already been sent on to Hogwarts in preparation for the new term in a little over two weeks. There was nothing belonging to him left anywhere in the entire house, no evidence that he had ever lived there.

His aunt and uncle's room remained as they had left it, although the rumpled duvet had been returned to the bed. The Ministry would arrange to have the rest of the house emptied later that day and everything moved to storage until his uncle and cousin were rehoused. Harry looked at all the toys and games that were crammed into Dudley's room and wondered how long his cousin could survive without them. It was a fleeting thought, but one he regretted immediately. It was unfair on Dudley who, after all, had just lost his mother. He knew better than most how that felt. 

Harry headed slowly downstairs. The broken mug had been cleared from the kitchen floor and the conservatory doors closed and locked. He peered out into the garden, not quite sure what he was expecting to see. It all seemed remarkably quiet and normal, with nothing to give away what had happened only a few hours ago. He retraced his steps into the hall, pausing as he passed the cupboard under the stairs, his hand resting on the doorknob. It had been his home for so much of his sixteen years. For a moment Harry was a ten-year-old again, on the morning that he had received a cream envelope in the mail bearing the crest of Hogwarts. His life had changed beyond recognition since that day. Even with Voldemort casting his shadow over him from the moment he had found out he was a wizard, even with all the tragedy and heartache that had followed, he knew he wouldn't have wanted to miss out on any of it. 

Harry's fingers slipped from the doorknob as he moved towards the living room. He smiled wryly at the boarded up fireplace, remembering when Arthur Weasley had blasted his way through it much to the horror of the Dursleys. His gaze swept over the family photographs on the mantelpiece, none of which included him. He walked across and picked up the largest one, studying the faces of his cousin, uncle and aunt as they smiled back at him in frozen ignorance. It was difficult to imagine that this would be the last time he would see them. He gently traced a finger over Petunia Dursley's face, recognising for the first time the faintest semblance of his mother in her features. He would never understand how she could have turned her back on her sister, yet a part of him was beginning to appreciate how she must have felt. If she had been as close to Lily as Dumbledore had implied, the wizarding world would have quickly driven a wedge between them. It certainly explained why she wanted to pretend it didn't exist and was so hateful of anything that reminded her of it. Dumbledore hadn't said who the man was that Petunia had been in love with, and Harry wished now that he had pressed him on the matter. He was intrigued to know more and made a promise to himself that he would bring it up with Dumbledore again when he had the chance. 

A strange feeling of peace unexpectedly settled over Harry, and he realised with surprise that he had somehow found it within himself to forgive Petunia Dursley. He flipped over the silver frame, his intention to remove the photo and take it with him, but something inside him made him stop. Instead, he returned the frame to its place on the mantelpiece. This part of his life was over, it was time to leave it in the past. He took one last look around the room before closing the door behind him. 

Dumbledore was waiting for him on the doorstep. Harry pulled shut the front door of number four, Privet Drive and took the headmaster's offered arm. "I'm ready, Professor." 

Dumbledore nodded, and with a sharp crack they Disapparated.


	2. The Art Of Numerology

_Disclaimer: Characters, locations and certain plot details of this chapter are owned by JK Rowling and her respective publishers. I do not own Harry Potter (unfortunately), and I am not making any money from this story._

 

**Chapter Two**

**The Art Of Numerology**

Hermione Granger dropped a folded piece of bright pink paper into Harry's lap as she passed behind him to take a seat at the busy Gryffindor breakfast table. “It's from Cho,” she explained at his questioning look. She reached for a jug of water and poured herself a glass as Harry dropped his knife and fork onto his plate with a clatter and unfolded the note.

Ron Weasley looked across at Hermione with an amused expression on his face. “Since when have you been best friends with Cho Chang?” he asked, munching on a slice of toast.

Hermione shot him a withering look. “I'm not,” she replied, setting the water jug back down on the table where it promptly refilled itself. “She cornered me by the doors and wouldn't let me go until I promised to give that to Harry.”

Ron's freckled face broke out into a grin. He leaned across the table, blue eyes twinkling playfully. “And?”

“And what?”

“Did you read it?”

Hermione frowned at him. “No, of course I didn't read it, Ronald,” she replied sharply. “ _Some_ of us happen to have morals.”

“Hey, I was only joking...” he grumbled, holding his hands up in defence when he saw the look on her face. “What's put you in a bad mood?”

Hermione shook her head in annoyance and turned her attention back to Harry, casting a sidelong glance at him as she sipped her water. Three weeks had passed since the Death Eater attacks on Privet Drive and The Burrow. She had noticed how both Harry and Ron were quieter and more withdrawn since their return to Hogwarts, quite unlike their usual selves. Ron seemed to be coping a little better than Harry, but then his family were all alive and well. His aunt's murder had hit Harry hard, something which Ron in particular didn't understand, even becoming quite exacerbated with Harry's frequent and often unpredictable mood swings. He failed to see why Harry was so upset over the death of someone who had treated him so badly. She, on the other hand, had sat and listened to Harry when he opened up about that night and could appreciate why it had affected him as deeply as it had. Looking at him now, she noticed faint shadows under his eyes; his previously absent nightmares had returned with a vengeance over the past week. Nevertheless, a little smile played upon his lips as he read Cho's note. Hermione couldn't stop a smile from forming on her own face. She hadn't read it, of course not. But she had a pretty good idea what it was about.

The Winter's Ball, which had been announced at the start of term last week, was the only thing anyone was talking about at the moment and yesterday, whilst studying in the library, she had overheard Cho telling a group of her friends that she was going to ask Harry to be her partner. Hermione didn't have much time for the older girl; Cho had taken an instant dislike to her because of her close friendship with Harry, which in Hermione's opinion was both unnecessary and somewhat immature. But she knew how much Harry liked her and she wasn't about to spoil things for him. If anyone deserved some happiness, he did.

As for Ron... She looked across the table at him as he tried desperately to fend off Lavender Brown's attempts to feed him a forkful of sausage from her plate. Nobody had been more surprised than Ron himself when it became apparent on their first day back at Hogwarts that Lavender had developed an enormous crush on him. Surprised, and at first quite boastful of the fact. Until he realised that having her follow him wherever he went, including the boys' bathroom, was going to make him the laughing stock of the school. But the damage had been done and Lavender was now under the impression that she and Ron were going out, something which Ron himself profusely denied.

Hermione pinched a slice of bacon off Harry's plate and sighed inwardly. With things seemingly looking up for both Harry and Ron in the romance department, she couldn't help feeling a little left out. It was two years since her very first kiss with Viktor Krum and she had not given the subject of romance much thought since. But with the situation with Voldemort worsening by the day, she was beginning to view the path her life was set upon in a different light. The three friends were now in their sixth year at Hogwarts, and after the events of last term Hermione had set her heart upon becoming an Auror. Somehow, she had managed to sail through her O.W.L.s with Outstanding marks in all but one of her classes, with Harry doing almost as well, and Ron's results all passes except for a D in Potions. She had been fully prepared to devote all of her time and effort into studying for her dream, knowing it would leave no room in her life for a boyfriend, let alone anything else. But now the whole of the wizarding world stood poised on the brink of war and priorities were changing for everyone. Friends, family and loved ones were quickly becoming all that really mattered to people living in a world where the future was uncertain.

With Hermione deep in thought, Ron fighting a losing battle with Lavender's fork, and Harry absorbed in Cho's note, no one noticed a tall figure approach and peer over Harry's shoulder. Before anyone could react, a smirking Draco Malfoy had snatched the note from Harry's fingers and was waving it over his head. “Hey, look at this! Harry Potter has a girlfriend!” 

Crabbe and Goyle, who somewhat predictably were stood just behind Draco, sniggered between themselves and a few people seated nearby turned to see what the fuss was about.

Harry was on his feet in a flash. “Give it back, Malfoy,” he demanded.

Draco's smirk grew. “No chance, Potter, we all want to know what it says.” He skimmed quickly through the note and chuckled to himself. “Harry, oh Harry,” he said, adopting a feminine voice as he pretended to read. “I love you so much! Please be mine forever and ever!”

“I mean it, Malfoy,” Harry threatened, his face flushing. “Give it back now or I swear I'll–”

“You'll what?” Draco interrupted, sneering at him. “Run crying to Dumbledore? Nothing new there.” He leaned in closer, his voice dropping a little. “My father sends his best wishes, by the way.”

“Your father got what he deserved,” Harry shot back.

Draco's eyes narrowed dangerously. “Think what you want, Potter, but at least he doesn't hide behind Dumbledore's skirts.”

A muscle tensed in Harry's jaw. “No, he hides behind Voldemort's instead.” His use of the name drew several resigned groans from the Gryffindor table, and even prompted Seamus Finnigan to lob a bread roll at him which missed and smacked Crabbe square in the forehead. Draco, however, didn't bat an eyelid. “I wouldn't say that was any different,” Harry continued, oblivious to the reactions around him. “Would you?”

“The difference,” Draco retaliated, “is that we chose the right side and you... didn't.” His upper lip curled derisively as he glanced across at Ron. “But why break with the habit of a lifetime? Your choices have always been questionable.”

Harry's eyes didn't leave Draco's face; he didn't need to see where Draco was looking to know exactly what he was referring to. “I've never regretted any of the choices I've made,” he said with quiet conviction, noting from the corner of his eye the way the Slytherin was subconsciously rubbing his left forearm. “Can you say the same?”

Draco's eyes instantly flew back to Harry's but Hermione intervened before he could respond, grabbing hold of Harry and pulling him away. “Snape,” she hissed in a low voice. The disturbance had attracted the attention of the Potions master, along with a few of the other professors. She turned to Draco. “You've had your bit of fun, Malfoy. Just give Harry his note and get lost.”

Draco glanced at her, his cold grey eyes meeting hers for a brief moment before flicking down to where a shiny red badge, engraved in gold with the letter 'P', flashed up at him from her robes. At the same time, Hermione's eyes dropped to his chest where an identical badge, but in green with a silver 'P', sat pinned beside the Slytherin house crest. Not for the first time, she cursed Snape for ever making Draco Malfoy a prefect. He leered down at her, making it clear that his prefect's badge rendered hers irrelevant. 

“Hush, Granger,” he retorted. “Your opinion wasn't asked for.” He turned his attention back to the note, apparently deciding it was wiser to brush over Harry's previous question. “So, who's the lucky girl?” he continued, darting down between the tables as Hermione made an exasperated noise and released her grip on Harry. They both flew after him only to find their way blocked by Crabbe and Goyle. Cho, who had just taken her seat at the neighbouring Ravenclaw table, looked around as Draco advanced towards her. Her eyes fell on the piece of paper he brandished, and she turned a deep shade of red. “Why, it's none other than Cho Chang!” he announced, placing a hand upon her shoulder. She visibly flinched at his touch. “Glad to see you've finally put poor Cedric's death behind you.”

A furious Hermione extricated herself from Goyle's grasp moments before Harry pulled free of Crabbe. “That was out of order, Malfoy,” she cried, marching up to him. Her words rang loudly in the hushed silence that had fallen across the Gryffindor and Ravenclaw tables. 

“Cho...” Harry began, but she had already shot up from the bench. Without a word, she pushed past Hermione and Harry, who tried in vain to stop her. She ran from the Hall, barely holding back her choked sobs. 

“I really think you should be committed to St Mungo's,” Draco shouted after her with a laugh. “You can keep Longbottom's parents company,” he added, loud enough for the chubby boy seated at the Gryffindor table to hear. 

Awkward glances were exchanged around Neville. His friends had only recently found out that his parents were not dead, but in fact resident patients at St Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries after being tortured into insanity by Death Eaters. It wasn't common knowledge _outside_ Gryffindor House, however, and Hermione could already see the wave of frenzied whispers washing across the other three tables as the news began to spread. Neville placed his knife and fork down, pushed his plate away, and rose to his feet with as much dignity as he could muster. “And who put them there, Malfoy?” he asked quietly. “Your family did. Something for you to be proud of, I suppose.” He gathered his belongings with shaking hands and quickly followed after Cho.

Harry glared at Draco. “You really can't help yourself, can you?” When Draco shrugged as if he couldn't care less, Harry's anger flared. He stepped up to him, deliberately invading his space and using his well-built stature to great effect over the taller boy. Draco took a reflexive step back as Harry prodded him in the chest with a finger. “You'll pay for what you just said to Neville,” he promised. 

“And _you'll_ pay for what you did to my father,” Draco countered venomously, shoving Harry backwards in order to regain his lost ground.

At the staff table, Snape stood up. Hermione groaned under her breath and shouldered her way between the two boys in an effort to avoid trouble. “Go after Cho,” she insisted, giving Harry a gentle push in the direction of the doors. “Leave Malfoy to me.”

But Harry continued to glare at Draco, who stared back at him over the top of Hermione's head, an unspoken challenge in his eyes. As was always the case between them, neither seemed willing to back down; in fact, Harry appeared to be struggling just to stay in control.

“Harry...” Hermione pleaded, quickly recognising the need to remove her friend from the situation before things got out of hand. His mood swings weren't the only thing that were becoming a problem. His temper was starting to get the better of him too, rising up out of nowhere in the blink of an eye. Something which Draco hadn't failed to notice, or take advantage of. This was the third time in as many days they had squared up to each other for one reason or another. Hermione planted herself directly in front of Harry, forcing him to break his eye contact with Draco. “Go after Cho,” she repeated firmly. 

A tense moment followed, during which Harry's internal struggle appeared to be one he was losing. Hermione suddenly found herself reconsidering her position. She didn't particularly want to be stuck in the middle if Draco did succeed in pushing Harry too far. But then, to her relief and everyone else's disappointment, Harry turned abruptly and stormed out of the Great Hall, casting a furious parting glance at Draco as he disappeared through the doors. Draco turned to Crabbe and Goyle. “Do you think it was something I said?” he asked innocently, and laughter broke out among the Slytherins who had wandered over to give him their support. Seizing her opportunity, Hermione reached to steal the note from Draco's fingers while he was distracted, but he was too quick and snatched it away. “Not so fast, Granger. If you want it, you'll have to ask nicely.”

Hermione held out her hand impatiently. “Just give me the note,” she demanded. “I'm not in the mood for your silly games.”

Draco frowned. “That's a shame, you know how much I enjoy _playing_ with you.”

“Leave him,” said Ron from the other side of the Gryffindor table. Lavender was seated beside him, watching the scene unfold with wide blue eyes. “He isn't worth it.”

But Hermione wasn't about to back down from Draco Malfoy, especially in front of half of the school. She narrowed her eyes at him as she looked for a way out of this that would give her possession of the damned note.

Draco grinned at her. “You know, Granger, you're quite attractive when you get mad,” he declared. Then he wrinkled his nose. “For a filthy Mudblood, that is.”

That was when Hermione's patience snapped. Draco held the note higher as she grabbed for it, leaning back so it was out of her reach. But Hermione was determined not to be outdone. She stood on tiptoes, her body pressed against his, stretching up over his shoulder. Draco chuckled as her fingers closed over his, a low rumble that Hermione felt vibrate through her. Her efforts were futile, though, as no matter how hard she tugged at the note, he wouldn't release it. Faces inches apart, they glared at each other. 

“Let. Go.”

“Make. Me.” 

“Get in there, Malfoy!” someone interjected, to much hilarity.

Draco chuckled again, but then his face grew strangely inscrutable and he shifted his weight slowly, deliberately, his body moving against hers. “All you had to do,” he paused to tuck her hair behind her ear, then leaned forward and whispered, “was say please...” He relinquished his hold on the note so suddenly that Hermione stumbled backwards. Her face burning, she regained her balance and hastened from the Great Hall, Draco Malfoy's laughter ringing in her ears.

* * *

The Hall doors slammed shut behind her and Hermione leaned back against them for a moment to recompose herself.

 _What, in the name of Merlin, just happened?_

Taking the customary insults out of what Draco had said to her, she could almost have believed he was flirting. Which was nothing more than plain ridiculous. She covered her cheeks with her palms and wondered if they looked as hot as they felt. Never had she been so mortified in her life. Or confused for that matter. But more than anything she was furious. Furious with him for the things he had said to Cho and Neville. Furious with him for goading an already highly strung Harry. And furious with him for continuing to abuse his position as a prefect. 

Hermione had been immensely proud when she received a letter from Professor McGonagall before the start of term last year, informing her she was to be a Gryffindor prefect alongside Ron. So proud, in fact, that her parents had even framed the letter, which was now hanging on the wall beside her bed at home. To then find out that Draco Malfoy had been given the same honour somewhat cheapened the experience for her. He had spent virtually the whole of their fifth year using his position as an excuse to bully people and generally get his own way. As a result, Hermione had fully expected him to be stripped of his prefect's badge this year, especially after the fiasco of Dolores Umbridge's spell as Headmistress and Draco's role in her Inquisitorial Squad. It seemed Dumbledore disagreed, however.

A group of approaching Hufflepuffs forced her to step away from the doors. Pushing the irritation that was Draco Malfoy to one side, her thoughts returned to Harry. If he had gone looking for Cho then the most likely place to find him would be Ravenclaw Tower. But as she headed in the direction of the stairs, Ron came hurrying from the Great Hall with Lavender in tow.

“Hermione!” he called.

She turned and stopped, waiting for them to catch up.

“Are you... okay?” Ron looked genuinely concerned.

Hermione forced a smile. “Of course I am. Why shouldn't I be?”

Ron glanced doubtfully at Lavender, who gazed back at him like a lovesick puppy. “It's just, you know,” he continued, trying to edge away from her. “That little scene in there with Malfoy. He went too far.”

Hermione brushed it away as nonchalantly as she could manage. “Don't worry about it. It takes more than that overgrown ferret to bother me.” Ron opened his mouth again, but Hermione didn't want to discuss it any further and cut him off. “Look, I'll speak to you later. I'm going to find Harry so I can give this back to him.” She waved the note over her shoulder as she hurried away.

Half an hour later, she finally found him on her second sweep of the Gryffindor common room. He was curled up in an armchair, staring into the empty fireplace. 

Hermione knelt beside him and held out the note. He took it in silence. “Did you catch up with Cho?” she asked gently.

Harry nodded.

“How is she?”

“How do you think, after what Malfoy said to her?” Harry replied bitterly. Then he sighed and glanced at Hermione. “Sorry, I didn't mean to snap at you.”

“It's okay.”

He looked down at the note. “Cho asked me to go to the ball with her.”

Hermione smiled. “That's great, Harry.”

“But now she says it was a mistake.”

“A mistake?” A frown replaced the smile. “Why a mistake?”

“I don't know. Because of Cedric, I suppose.”

“But it's been well over a year!” Hermione exclaimed. “I thought she was past all that?”

“So did I.” Harry rubbed his scar subconsciously, something he was so prone to doing lately. “Looks like we were both wrong.”

Hermione's frown deepened; she was beginning to tire of Cho messing Harry around. “She's being silly. No one's going to think badly of her for wanting to move on after so long.”

Harry shrugged. “Malfoy does.”

“Oh, come on,” Hermione scoffed. “Everyone knows he only said that because he enjoys hurting people.”

Harry suddenly fell silent and Hermione watched as he absently folded the note over and over until it was too small to fold any further. Having initially put his mood swings down to recent events, she was beginning to wonder if she had been mistaken. Seeing him like this gave her the distinct impression that there was something else troubling him, something that ran much deeper.

“Anyway, thanks for getting this back, but there wasn't much point.” Harry flicked what was left of the note into the hearth. “If Malfoy's done anything, it's make me realise that things are never going to work out between me and Cho. If Cedric wasn't the problem, it would be something else.”

Hermione smiled. “Are you trying to say Malfoy's done you a favour?” she asked, attempting to lighten Harry's mood. But the smile she had hoped to see in return never came. 

“Malfoy doesn't do himself any favours, never mind anyone else,” Harry muttered, pushing himself up out of the armchair.

Hermione took the hand he offered and allowed herself to be pulled to her feet. “Yes, well I don't know what's got into him this term but he seems intent on annoying as many people as he possibly can.” She relayed to Harry what had happened after he left the Great Hall.

Harry's face was as dark as a thundercloud by the time she finished. “I think it's about time Malfoy realised his actions have consequences.”

Hermione nodded. “I couldn't agree more, and if things were different... But in all honesty, Harry, we have far more important things to worry about than Draco Malfoy.”

* * *

If Hermione thought her morning had started out badly, she was in for an unpleasant surprise as it proved to be the beginning of a day that got progressively worse. The fact that her first class also happened to be her least favourite should, she supposed with hindsight, have served as a forewarning of what was to come.

She stood at the foot of a ladder leading up to a trapdoor in the North Tower, her arms loaded with gaudily decorated books, and looked around her at all the students milling about. Professor Trelawney is going to be in for quite a surprise, she thought. There had been a significant increase in those taking Divination this year; Hermione herself had been dismayed to learn that in order to be accepted into Auror training she would need to pass a wide variety of N.E.W.T.s, which included the one subject she had vowed never to return to. 

What something which basically amounted to fortune telling had to do with law enforcement she couldn't begin to imagine, although it was supposedly considered beneficial to have a broad knowledge of all the different branches of magic. The only consolation was that Harry, who had no real plan beyond Hogwarts and didn't particularly wish to dwell on the matter, had offered to endure it alongside her for the sake of her sanity. Ron had also decided to sign up for the class at the last minute, if only to keep Lavender happy. She had nagged him repeatedly on the matter until he was so fed up that he gave in, much to her satisfaction. Hermione watched them now, Lavender with her arm hooked through Ron's, hanging onto him as tightly as she could while Ron did his best to look interested in whatever it was she was saying. 

It was only when Trelawney opened the trapdoor and invited them inside that Hermione noticed another student she hadn't expected to see. She pulled out a cushion at one of the small round tables which were draped with elaborately embroidered scarlet and gold silk covers, and watched as Draco Malfoy did likewise. She nudged Harry, who was seating himself beside her, and nodded across the room. Harry's brows lifted in surprise. Draco had never made a secret of how little he thought of Divination and everything associated with it, so to see him here was both surprising and intriguing. “What do you think he's up to?” Hermione whispered to Harry, who shrugged in response.

Professor Trelawney was already sweeping round the room, separating everyone into mixed sex pairs. A hovering stack of pink paper hearts followed her, distributing themselves to each table as she went. When she reached their table she blinked and peered down at Hermione, her thick glasses making her eyes bulge. “Ah!” she exclaimed suddenly, making Harry jump. “I knew you would return!” 

Hermione smiled sweetly up at her, then glanced at Harry out of the corner of her eye and grimaced. “Must have been in her tea leaves,” she mumbled and Harry was forced to duck his head to hide his grin. 

Trelawney didn't appear to notice. “You are fortunate that Seers such as myself are so forgiving towards those who are ignorant of our talents,” she continued graciously, and whirled away with a flick of her long bejewelled shawls. 

“I think she remembers you,” Harry said, still grinning. Hermione swatted him on the arm with her pink heart. Having sensationally walked out on a Divination class in their third year, she would have been more surprised if Trelawney hadn't remembered her. It was only with McGonagall's blessing that she had been allowed to drop Divination altogether after that, something which now meant she had two years worth of staring into teacups and crystal balls to catch up on. The very prospect was enough to make her head pound.

“What do you think we're doing with these?” Harry wondered out loud, picking up his own pink heart between thumb and forefinger like it was about to bite him. 

As if in answer to his question, Trelawney positioned herself in the centre of the room and flung her arms open wide, her eyes closed. “Love...” she began in a loud whisper, and everyone stopped talking amongst themselves in order to listen. 

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Oh great,” she muttered.

“Love...” Trelawney repeated, her whisper softening. “The most powerful emotion in the world.” She paused dramatically and opened her eyes to gaze around. The majority of the boys were lolling on their tables, their interest in the lesson having already waned. Lewis Roper, usually one of Hufflepuff's more studious pupils, had folded his pink heart into a paper plane and was trying to make it fly by waving his wand at it from under the table where it wouldn't be noticed. The plane itself didn't budge; it was only the table flying a foot into the air that gave him away. Trelawney fixed him with a furious glare as he stashed his wand away hastily, the table dropping back to the floor with a clatter. The pink plane unfolded itself back into a heart and Trelawney, looking decidedly vexed, turned her attention on the more appreciative members of her audience. Lavender, Parvati Patil and a number of other girls were hanging off the Professor's every word. “The most powerful emotion in the world,” she repeated, “yet almost impossible to find.” Lowering her arms, she clutched Lavender's shoulder and leaned in close to her. “How do you know when true love has entered your life, when your soulmate is just a breath, a heartbeat, or maybe even a seat away from you...”

Lavender turned wide eyes on Ron, who was sitting beside her, and Hermione had to stifle a laugh as he went as red as his hair and shifted his gaze to the floor. 

“The truth is that fate determines who that person is by the date of your birth and the name you are given.” Trelawney waved her wand and several incense burners placed around the room starting to smoke, their sickly sweet scents quickly wafting around her students. She returned to the centre of the room. “Let me show you how they hold the answer to the question of whether that special someone truly is... your destiny.”

“Splendid topic, Professor Trelawney!” Everyone in the room started at the bright, cheery voice that cut through the hazy stupor they were rapidly falling into. Hermione craned her neck to see Albus Dumbledore's head poking through the trapdoor. A flustered Trelawney adjusted and readjusted her shawls. “Unfortunately,” Dumbledore continued apologetically, “I must deprive one of your students of such knowledge in favour of more pressing matters.” He crooked a finger at Harry, beckoning him over. 

Speculative whispers began to sweep around the tables, and Harry and Hermione exchanged a worried look as he stood. Dumbledore interrupting a lesson to personally speak with a pupil was almost unheard of. “Should I bring my things?” he asked hesitantly. 

Dumbledore waved a dismissive hand. “Leave them here, you can collect them afterwards.”

Harry crossed the room, passing Professor Trelawney on his way to the trapdoor. She reached out and grabbed his arm as he went by. “Never mind, my dear,” she told him sympathetically. “Love will be the least of your concerns in the coming months.”

Harry smiled weakly and extricated himself from her grip. “That's – er – good to know, Professor,” he replied, and hurried to the trapdoor before she could launch herself into the subject of his long anticipated demise, something which she predicted each year without fail. It appeared to Harry to be one of the few pleasures she enjoyed. Along with a newly acquired taste for sherry, if the smell on her breath was anything to go by.

“Perhaps Miss Granger would like to find another partner for this task,” Dumbledore prompted, “given the unlikelihood of Harry returning before the end of the lesson.”

Trelawney blinked like a bewildered owl.

“Might I also suggest that it be Draco Malfoy?” 

Draco's eyes flickered from Harry to Dumbledore. 

“As much as I'm sure everyone is looking forward to seeing if he and Vincent Crabbe are each other's – to quote yourself – destiny,” Dumbledore continued with a twinkle in his eyes, “I feel it would be a question better left unanswered.” A series of sniggers broke out. Crabbe had been forced to join Draco and Pansy Parkinson due to the odd number of students in the class, but with Harry's departure that problem would be rectified. 

Hermione cursed Dumbledore's sharp eye for noticing that. Draco was watching her with a lazy smile, whilst beside him Pansy was shooting her a look so murderous that Hermione was glad looks couldn't actually kill. She turned to Trelawney. “Professor, I'm sure I can work on this by myself. I don't need a partner.”

“Nonsense, Miss Granger!” Dumbledore replied cheerfully. “Not having a partner would rather negate the purpose of this little exercise, wouldn't you agree?”

She opened her mouth to protest further but Dumbledore had already disappeared from view. Harry shot her an apologetic glance as he followed the headmaster down the ladder. Ron leaned across from the next table. “Too bad,” he whispered. Hermione scowled as she moved Harry's books and bag over to her side of the table. “'Bad' is having to sit this nonsense in the first place,” she replied, biting back the rest of her words as Draco dropped his things into the space she had cleared and sat down on Harry's vacated cushion. She pointedly ignored the look he gave her.

“Each of you take your dove quill,” Professor Trelawney waved her own in the air with an exaggerated flourish, “and use your bleeding heart ink to write the name of your partner on your heart.” 

Hermione pursed her lips disdainfully and scrawled 'Draco Malfoy' across her heart, digging her quill in so viciously that she ripped a hole in the paper. She heard Draco chuckle beside her, and as she looked up he quirked his eyebrows at her. His amusement faded though as he shifted his gaze back to Trelawney to find her pointing at him, her eyes fixated on him in a bug-eyed stare. Everyone turned to look at Draco. “You...” she said, her voice faint. “You are an eleven...”

Draco stared back at her as if she was deranged. “I'm a what?”

It was a while before he got an answer, however, as a large scroll of paper displaying a chart made up of numbers and letters chose that moment to unfurl itself, hanging suspended in front of Trelawney so that she was obscured from view. A brief battle between it and the professor ensued as she tried to step in front of it only to have it continually flap her away. After several attempts she gave up, and Hermione briefly considered spelling the paper into place but decided that would be far too charitable of her. In any case, Trelawney was more than capable of doing so herself.

_If she's even sober enough to realise it._

A voice rose up from behind the paper, somewhat muffled by its size and thickness. “Give each letter of your partner's name a number according to its place in this chart.”

Hermione frowned at the chart. It was nothing more than the alphabet and the corresponding numbers – one to twenty-six – for each letter. She sighed. Underneath the chart a note had been written:

The letters J through to Z have double digit numbers. In these cases, add the two digits together to form a single digit number; this is called reducing.

“Add together all the numbers in your partner's name, and keep reducing until you are left with one single digit number.” Trelawney peered around the edge of the paper. “This...” she paused until she had everyone's attention “...is your partner's Destiny number!” A moment later the paper rolled itself back up. Trelawney eyed it cautiously where it hovered over her head, but when she took a step forward and it didn't budge, she made a small sound of triumph and turned her attention back to her class. Her eyes wandered blankly over the sea of faces in front of her until she settled on Draco's again. “Oh yes, you. The eleven... Quite unusual. The only one to be compatible with all other Destiny numbers.” Her eyes flickered to Hermione and she gave a small start, as if noticing her for the first time. And then, to Hermione's curiosity, a smile spread slowly across her face. “Especially three, the neutral number. How interesting that you should have ended up together for this.”

“Hey, Draco, baby. Pansy here is a three,” Blaise Zabini called out, mirth lacing every word. Pansy stomped over to retrieve the heart he had seconds ago plucked from Crabbe's fingers but as she returned to her table she shot Hermione a smug look. Draco, on the other hand, didn't seem the slightest bit interested in whether she was a three, six or three hundred and six. Judging from the expression on his face he appeared to be rethinking his decision to take Divination, and for once Hermione found herself in complete agreement with him.

“Professor,” she interjected, her patience already failing, “Malfoy – I mean Draco – isn't an eleven.”

Trelawney peered down at her in irritation.

“If your chart thing,” Hermione continued, her tone clearly expressing what she thought of it, “is correct–”

“Of course it's correct!” Trelawney interrupted in an affronted tone.

“Well then, Malfoy–” she glared at him from the corner of her eye as he sniggered “– _Draco_ is a five.”

Professor Trelawney was gawking at her as if she had just sprouted horns, wings and a forked tail. Horrified didn't even come close to describing the expression on her face. “Nonsense!” she barked. “You cannot possibly understand the complexities of such calculations having only just learned them.”

“But, Professor, it's all there.” Hermione gestured at the airborne scroll of paper which helpfully unrolled once again and was swiftly secured with her Adhaero Spell. “Look...” And she proceeded to reel through a series of equations to prove her point, leaving Trelawney cross-eyed. “And I'm a four, _not_ a three,” she continued resolutely, “so as for any compatibility between the two, even I know that an odd and an even Destiny number have no common ground.” As if to further cement her argument, Hermione reached for the smallest of her pile of books, entitled _The Art of Numerology_ by Wanda Watkins. She flicked quickly through to the page she wanted and began reading out loud. “ _Destiny number four produces a character of exceeding virtue. You must choose your friends from the few that live up to your high moralistic standards; it will be difficult to hide your disappointment in anyone who fails to meet your ideal. The negative manifestation of number four often produces dominant and bossy individuals – avoid becoming too stubborn and fixed in your opinions._ ”

“Dominant and bossy – that sums her up perfectly,” Pansy remarked loudly from the other side of the room.

Hermione, cheeks turning slightly red, ignored the laughter that broke out among the Slytherins and ploughed on regardless, wishing that she had taken more time to read the book instead of giving it a cursory glance late last night. “ _Destiny number five suggests that the direction of growth in your lifetime will be toward becoming a harbinger of change, freedom, and progressive thought and action. You must learn to accept changes as they come along and not cling to the outdated. Avoid rebellion, and focus on enlightenment and progression that will benefit mankind as a whole._ ”

The room fell silent as she read, dozens of pairs of eyes once again turning on Draco.

“ _Your life is broadened by gaining an understanding and an appreciation of all kinds of people. Be warned, however. As clever as you are, you have a tendency to make the same mistakes over and over again..._ ” Hermione paused and gazed down at the page before her in astonishment. She hadn't expected something as profound or indeed prophetic as that. She stole a glance at Draco, whose own gaze was fixed solidly to the table in front of him. 

“Have you – _quite_ – finished?” Trelawney asked, sounding slightly irritated.

Hermione ignored her and turned back to the book in order to finish making her point. “ _An odd and even Destiny number pairing (with the notable exceptions mentioned previously), frequently prove too much of a challenge. Odds and evens have different temperaments and different ways of communicating. Odds are deceptive and obscure, while evens will be more direct and to the point. Evens do not like change, odds require it. Consequently, they have a low compatibility rating._ ” She placed as much emphasis on this last part as she could, regarding Trelawney stubbornly.

“Professor?” Lavender Brown had raised her hand. “I think Hermione's right, but she also said there were notable exceptions.” She had her own copy of _The Art of Numerology_ open in front of her, her finger marking a point on the page from which she began to quote. “ _These exceptions occur when the odd and even Destiny numbers together equal nine. Nine is the largest and therefore strongest and most stable of the root numbers, and this directly correlates to any such relationship between eight and one, seven and two, six and three or–_ ” she looked up at Hermione and Draco “ _–five and four!_ ” she finished triumphantly.

Professor Trelawney clapped her hands together, her bangles jangling noisily. “There,” she said to Hermione, “I was quite correct.”

Hermione began to object but Trelawney had already moved on. “Your birthdate?” she demanded of Draco, who replied more obligingly than Hermione had expected, earning himself a glower. “And yours?” Trelawney turned to her. She mumbled her response and Trelawney proceeded to close her eyes for what seemed like an eternity. Hermione was beginning to think that her own incense had sent her off to sleep when her eyes flew open and she pointed once again at Draco. “Eleven...” she whispered, and the misty voice and wide eyes were back. 

Hermione rolled her eyes hopelessly at the ceiling. 

“There is no doubt this time,” Trelawney continued pointedly, to which there were several stifled sniggers. She paused for silence, and then whispered, “Your Life Path number _is_ eleven...”

“That's not the only thing about me that the number eleven applies to,” Draco implied suggestively, grinning across at the Slytherins and receiving a wolf-whistle from Blaise in response.

“Yes, your IQ being the other,” Hermione muttered. 

Draco turned a puzzled expression on her. “My what?”

“Precisely,” she bit back, but the word was swallowed up in a surge of chattering voices as the class began to lose its focus.

Trelawney stood in the centre of the room, seemingly at a loss as to how to bring everyone back under control. Her calls for quiet went unheeded. “No, she's right,” Lavender piped up eventually, in a bid to help out her favourite teacher. “The numbers in Draco's birthdate do equal eleven.”

“What's so special about eleven anyway?” Draco drawled in a bored voice as the class began to settle back down.

Trelawney opened her mouth to answer his question but Lavender got there first. “It's a Master number,” she replied excitedly. “One of the most important numbers in Numerology.”

“Master number?” Draco echoed. He caught Hermione's eye and grinned in an insufferably smug manner.

“Yes,” Lavender continued. “Some of the most important witches and wizards have had eleven as their Life Path number.” She thumbed through _The Art of Numerology_. “It's all here, on page twenty-five. _Life Path eleven: You have the skills to become a great leader. You crave independence, and the need for personal achievement. You have very strong personal wants and desires, but struggle to follow your own convictions. Although you may hide the fact, you can be self-centred and egotistical, and demand to have your own way in many circumstances. Nervous energy is a trait often observed. Because of this, you may be seen as an extremist who is sometimes overzealous in expressing likes and dislikes. Nervous tension can result in a state of emotional outrage, which to those around you may seem out of character. In some instances, your strengths can also become your weaknesses. You may find it hard to decide what to do at times, and struggle with indecisiveness. There is also a tendency to harbour feelings of unease and dissatisfaction with accomplishments in life._ ”

Draco sneered at Lavender and her book, apparently none too impressed with its character assassination of him. “And who seriously believes all that crap, Brown? You would need to be funny in the head.” He shot a look in Trelawney's direction which escaped no one except Trelawney herself, who was watching Lavender with a decidedly put-out expression on her face. “Oh wait.” Draco's eyes returned to Lavender. “I forgot who it was I was talking to. You've been funny in the head since first year.”

Lavender, who was already blushing having realised she had annoyed Trelawney, blushed an even deeper shade of red and lowered her face. Hermione, feeling an unexpected pang of sympathy for the girl, found herself jumping to her defence. “You know, Malfoy, if being funny in the head is a requirement for this class, it certainly explains why you're here.” 

Ron's mouth dropped open in surprise as the class burst into laughter again, this time with the exception of the Slytherins who glowered at Hermione from across the room. Draco himself glared angrily at her. “Watch that mouth of yours, Granger,” he warned. “You never know what trouble it will get you into.”

Hermione frowned at the thinly-veiled threat but decided to let it pass. After the scene in the Great Hall that morning, she didn't want to create another so soon. 

Instead, what she got was worse. Much worse.

Trelawney was regarding Draco and Hermione thoughtfully. “Your Life Path number is nine...” she said eventually, gazing with intent at Hermione. Hermione's eyes narrowed as she spotted the momentary flash of spite from behind the professor's glasses.

A second later, Lavender almost squealed with excitement. “Oh!” she said, wriggling in her seat with wide-eyed glee, her previous embarrassment forgotten. “Nine and eleven!”

Trelawney nodded, determined not to be beaten to the explanation this time. “Nine, the highest of the root numbers, and eleven. A Master number. A powerful numerical alliance. Added to each other they equal twenty, reduced to two. And that is, my dear...?”

“The number of the lovers...” Lavender answered, somewhat breathlessly.

“It is indeed.” Trelawney was still looking at Hermione. “I think we should see exactly how compatible you and this young man are.” The chart and writing on the paper behind her, still held steadfast by Hermione's sticking spell, dissolved and a quill appeared, hovering expectantly beside it. “Let's see... a combined Destiny number of nine.” The quill sprang forward and scratched a large black '9' onto the paper. “A combined Life Path number of two.” A '2' was scratched beneath the '9'. “We multiply both of these with the Bonding number, three.”

Hermione and Draco exchanged a fleeting glance, expressions of disgust and horror clashing with each other at the mention of the wizarding world's version of marriage.

A small murmur escaped Trelawney as she watched the '9' and '2' disappear to be replaced with '27' and '6'. “Added together...” The quill promptly scratched '33' beside them. There was a pause as Trelawney turned to look down at Hermione and Draco. “It can't be...” she whispered in such a manner that Hermione wasn't fooled for a second. Whatever it was she was up to, Trelawney knew exactly what she was doing.

“Their own Bonded number, the number which derives from the merger of their names...” The quill responded behind her, a '2' appearing before she had even finished speaking. “Two, once again the number of the lovers. Added to one, which symbolises unity...” Trelawney waited for the quill to scratch out a '3', “...and multiplied with the thirty-three to give a compatibility score of...”

Hermione watched with a growing sense of dread as everything else on the paper dissolved and the quill scratched out its final number.

“...ninety-nine percent!”

Lavender fell off her cushion with excitement.

“My dears!” Trelawney grabbed Hermione's hand, simultaneously reaching for Draco's which he snatched away. Hermione couldn't recall the last time Trelawney had referred to her, or Draco for that matter, as 'my dear'. Between them, they were possibly her most antagonistic students. And then Hermione's jaw dropped in astonishment as she suddenly realised what was happening.

Trelawney brushed off Draco's reaction. “That's in the top three percent!”

“You don't say,” Hermione grumbled under her breath, trying to ignore the way everyone was staring in fascination at them. Everyone, that is, with the sole exception of Pansy who looked like she was about to explode.

“That would make you...” Trelawney paused dramatically, “...Twin Flames!” she declared, and clasped her hands together jubilantly as she looked first at Draco, who lounged forward on the table looking as if he found it all highly amusing, and then at Hermione. The room erupted into a riot of wolf-whistles and cheers, and a positively glowing Trelawney flicked her shawls. “How fascinating...” she murmured. And then she flashed a triumphant smile at Hermione. 

Hermione shook her head in disbelief. There was no doubt about it; Professor Sybill Trelawney had just exacted her revenge on her two least favourite pupils in the most perfect way possible – by tying their names together in some ridiculous concoction of destiny and fate when it was obvious how much they despised each other. She knew as well as Trelawney did that something like this would be all over the school by the end of the day, especially if the frantic whispering between Lavender, Parvati and the Spinks twins behind those silly pink hearts was anything to go by. Trelawney had set her up for Merlin only knew how much teasing, fully aware of how much it would irritate her. Hermione would have been impressed, had she not been so utterly annoyed. What neither of them realised, however, as Trelawney turned away and Hermione glared daggers at the back of her head, was precisely how much of an impact the professor's actions would have...

* * *

“Hermione..?”

“What?”

“What's a Twin Flame?”

Hermione stopped so abruptly that Harry, who had been on the verge of running in order to keep up, collided into the back of her, knocking his glasses to the floor. He had just returned from collecting his books and bag from the Divination classroom following his meeting with Dumbledore which, he told Hermione and Ron apologetically, he had been asked not to discuss with anyone until circumstances allowed. Both of them had been visibly affronted by this but said nothing and they were now on their way to their next lesson, History of Magic, when Ron blurted out that question. 

Hermione turned impatient eyes on him. “Ask Lavender, I'm sure she would take great pleasure in telling you.” She bent to retrieve Harry's glasses and handed them to him. “Sorry, Harry.”

“Thanks,” he said, and then, “Twin Flames?”

“Don't ask.”

Harry stared at her in bewilderment, but when it was clear she wasn't about to elaborate he looked over at Ron who only shrugged. “Have I missed something?”

Hermione grimaced. “Only that infuriating woman as good as marrying off Malfoy and I,” she announced bitterly and at completely the wrong moment as a group of Hufflepuffs, which included the Spinks twins, passed between them and scurried off giggling, glancing back at her as they disappeared around a corner. She let out an exasperated sigh and resumed her walking sprint only to be brought to a halt once more by Harry's hand on her arm. “What?” he asked incredulously.

Hermione shifted the weight of the books she was carrying. “Apparently, according to our Destiny and Life Path numbers, or some such nonsense, Draco Malfoy and I are Twin Flames. _Soulmates_ ,” she added for Ron's benefit, wrinkling her nose.

Harry laughed out loud. “Soulmates? I bet that went down well with Malfoy.”

“Well, to be precise it's a bit more than that. And actually he seemed to find it quite funny.”

“More than?”

“Yes, Ronald.”

“How?”

“Does it really matter?” Hermione snapped. “It's all utter rubbish, the sort of thing someone with air instead of a brain would believe. What are you doing?”

Harry had fished out his copy of _The Art of Numerology_ and located the entry on soulmates which, to Hermione's annoyance, he proceeded to read a section of to Ron. “ _Whereas soulmates are two people whose souls are irrepressibly drawn to each other, there are a special few who are actually considered to be two halves of the same soul. Twin Flames, as they are referred to, generally possess a compatibility score with each other that sits within the top three percent. If Twin Flames meet before they are ready to accept their destiny, they will subconsciously repel each other and find it impossible to get along. However, when the time is right and they allow their love to develop, it is without doubt the most enjoyable experience two people can ever wish to share. When this happens, they truly compliment each other and find it difficult to be apart. Meeting your Twin Flame is very rare._ ”

“See? Absolute nonsense.”

Harry shoved the book back into his bag with a grin. “Well, Hermione, either someone has a very twisted idea of what a 'most enjoyable experience' is, or you and Malfoy definitely don't believe in destiny.” He missed her scowl as his attention was still buried inside his bag. “Damn,” he exclaimed, pulling out a few tattered scraps of paper and sifting through them. “I don't have my History of Magic essay.”

Ron suddenly dived into his own bag, producing several even tattier scraps of paper than Harry's. “Me either,” he groaned.

Hermione shook her head hopelessly. “Honestly, the day you two remember your homework–”

“–will be the day you fail an exam,” Harry finished, smiling at her. “Yeah, we know.”

Hermione returned the smile affectionately. “See you in class,” she called, turning to go on without them.

Harry glanced at Ron. “Race you!” he shouted and he was off, running in the direction of Gryffindor Tower before Ron even knew what was happening.

* * *

The whispering that stopped the moment Hermione walked into the History of Magic classroom barely had time to register when Fay Dunbar appeared before her. “Is it true?” the Gryffindor girl asked, wide-eyed.

Hermione frowned at her as she tried to pass. “Is what true?”

“About you and Draco Malfoy...”

She could quite happily have cursed Trelawney on the spot. “That depends what you're talking about,” she replied tersely, dropping her book bag onto her desk with a thump.

Fay appeared uncomfortable saying it, but she did anyway. “That there's something going on between the two of you.”

Hermione's jaw dropped. She had been anticipating what Fay would say but she certainly wasn't expecting _this_. Barely ten minutes since they had left Divination and already the Hogwarts rumour mill was in overdrive. She stared at the dark-haired girl in front of her in open-mouthed astonishment, certain she must have misheard her. Why would anyone actually think that there _was_ something 'going on' between her and Draco Malfoy? “Who in the name of Merlin told you that?” she demanded.

Fay glanced awkwardly to where Lavender was sat but didn't answer. 

Hermione rolled her eyes; she might have known. “We were partnered up for a lesson, Fay,” she said irritably, glaring at Lavender. “I hardly think that constitutes as something 'going on'.”

“They weren't just partnered up for a lesson,” smirked Blaise Zabini's voice from the back of the room. “They were partnered up for a lesson on _love_.”

Hermione's jaw clenched tightly. “Numerology, _actually_.”

“ _And_ love,” Blaise persisted. 

The temptation to throw her book bag at him was almost too great.

“Is it true though?” Hannah Abbott blurted out from across the room, drawing Hermione's attention to the fact that everyone was staring at her with interest.

“Do you really need to ask?” she replied caustically, her generally steadfast patience wearing thin for the second time that day. “Seriously, me and Draco Malfoy? Have you any idea how ridiculous that sounds?”

Fay started to ask another question but Professor Binns chose that moment to float through the door, saving Hermione from further discussion on the matter. Ron and Harry were close behind, entering through the more conventional way of opening the door. Both were panting after the sprint back to their dormitory to get their essays.

Fay moved away and Hermione dropped into her seat, acutely aware of the renewed whispers around her and the stolen glances in her direction. Harry sat down beside her and tried to get her attention but she ignored him. She really didn't feel like talking to anyone right now.

* * *

It felt like the lesson would never end. Even Hermione found Professor Binns' monotonous droning unbearably dull at the best of times but today it seemed to go on and on in a manner reminiscent of torture. Blaise, free of Draco's presence, took advantage of the opportunity – and his drawing skills – to taunt Hermione mercilessly. When the lesson did finally end, there were dozens of scraps of paper scattered around the room depicting animated sketches of herself and Draco engaged in some frankly disturbing activities, and his constant stream of suggestive comments about the pair of them had even resulted in Binns pausing in his lecture, something he had never done before, and ordering Harry to sit down and put his wand away when one particularly lewd comment regarding cursed tombs causing people to grow three heads had made him see red. The subject of magic in Ancient Egypt would never hold the same interest for Hermione again following Blaise's degradation of it. Blast the pyramids and their back passages and secret entrances. And blast Draco Malfoy for apparently wanting to be a cursebreaker if his Quidditch ambitions came to nothing.

Eventually the three friends were making their way down to the Great Hall for lunch. Harry and Ron knew her well enough not to bring up the subject of Draco, but the stares and whispers Hermione was receiving from everyone else couldn't be prevented. She seated herself between Harry and Neville and stared firmly at her Ancient Runes textbook, refusing to look up unless she was spoken to. Nevertheless, she could almost feel the weight of so many pairs of eyes on her. Draco, she noted upon a brief scan of the room, was nowhere in sight. She wondered if he had been getting the same kind of treatment. Somehow, she doubted it.

She deliberately turned her attention to her Ancient Runes essay, digging out a quill from her bag and throwing herself into deciphering a centuries-old inscription. She became so engrossed in what she was doing that she barely heard Neville hissing her name, but a follow-up nudge from Harry made her raise her head. She gazed from one to the other vacantly. Ron's eyes were bulging at her. “What?” she asked, suddenly growing concerned at the expression of shock she saw on his face.

Neville pointed vaguely at her robes. “Look!”

Hermione looked. Nothing seemed out of place that she could see. “What am I supposed to be looking _at_ , exactly?” she asked with a frown. And then something caught her eye. She grabbed a handful of her robes and peered in disbelief at the house crest. Wrapped around the body of the Gryffindor lion was what appeared to be a serpent. _No_ , she amended, _**was** a serpent_. And not just any old serpent either, but the one from Slytherin's house crest. She stared at it in horror.

Harry leaned across for a better look. “It looks like a fairly complex charm,” he observed. “I wonder who did it?”

Driven partly by instinct and partly by the sensation of being watched, Hermione glanced over to the Slytherin table and caught Blaise grinning wickedly at her.

“Could have been anyone,” Ron murmured, watching the snake writhe in an unashamedly provocative manner, holding the lion tightly in its grasp.

“Well, we've got Charms next,” Harry said reassuringly. “We'll go there early and find Flitwick. He'll get rid of it.”

But to everyone's surprise, Hermione shook her head. “No.” She watched Blaise turn to Daphne Greengrass on his right and say something which caused her to look directly at Hermione and laugh.

“Why not?” Neville asked in confusion.

“Because it's better just to ignore it,” she replied, releasing the fabric and smoothing her robes back into place. “All of it. If nobody gets a reaction out of me, they'll soon get bored and find something else to talk about.”

Harry glanced sceptically at Ron, who shrugged, but they silently agreed to let the matter drop.

* * *

The Charms class itself passed without much incident, other than Professor Flitwick being planted upside down in the waste paper bin by one of Dean Thomas' errant Purgatio Charms. The sight of Flitwick's knees and feet flailing in the air as Dean held the bin and Seamus pulled him out had the class in hysterics, and Flitwick himself joined in with the good humour once he was freed. Amidst all of this, Hermione was relieved to find that she and Draco appeared to have been forgotten. _Perhaps_ , she thought, as she made her way to her last lesson of the day, _I did overreact_. Maybe things weren't going to be as bad as she had feared.

It wasn't long before her hopes were dashed.

The final lesson of the day just happened to be Potions. Harry and Ron had popped back to Gryffindor Tower to collect yet more forgotten essays so she went down to the dungeons alone. To her annoyance, a large group of second and third year Slytherins were gathered outside their common room, their chatter ceasing when they saw her approaching. She eyed them obstinately as she walked by and for a moment thought she had survived unscathed, but the second she had her back to them an array of kissing noises commenced which followed her as far as the Potions classroom door. She sighed and rolled her eyes.

But what she didn't expect was the scene that greeted her when she walked in. She stopped in her tracks and stared at the blackboard. Someone had written, in what looked like permanent chalk:

_When's the wedding, Malfoy and Granger?_

As if that wasn't bad enough, Draco entered the room immediately behind her. _That certainly accounts for the kissing noises_ , she thought with a blush, realising he must have been trailing her down the corridor. Like her, his eyes were also drawn to the blackboard. The other students laughed and wolf-whistled at them. Draco simply smirked at her and brushed past, far too closely for the amount of room there was.

"Oh, get a room," Blaise drawled, shoving Draco in the direction of their seats. Hermione hurried to her own seat and sank into it, grateful at least that it wasn't double Potions. This was going to stretch on for long enough as it was.

When Harry and Ron arrived minutes later, their eyes also flew straight to the blackboard. _Why is everyone doing that?_ she wondered irately as Harry strode over and threw his bag down onto the desk beside her, his face red from more than just the run to avoid being late. He looked so rankled that she suspected if Snape didn't arrive soon, his blackboard might end up strewn over the floor in tiny pieces. She smiled up at him, grateful for his show of outrage on her behalf, but his eyes were already locked with Draco's taunting ones and the spark of fury that she saw igniting in reply in Harry's made her reach out a restraining hand. This was definitely _not_ the time or the place.

Snape himself swept into the room before any confrontation could take place, and both Harry and the rest of the class took to their seats, the latter watching with interest as the professor's black eyes immediately settled on the blackboard. Hermione groaned inwardly.

Snape's only reaction was to raise an eyebrow. “Would either Draco or his betrothed care to supply an answer before we begin?” he asked in his monotone voice.

Everyone turned to look at Hermione and Draco, who was sat beside a fuming Pansy Parkinson. “Not until Hagrid has had a shave,” Draco obliged. He leaned forward to look at Hermione, who pressed her lips together and purposefully studied the desktop. “He certainly isn't coming to our wedding unless he does. Isn't that right, Muggles?”

There was a sharp intake of breath from Harry. Hermione froze in her seat, not quite able to believe it. _Muggles?!_ She turned her head slowly and stared past Harry to Draco, who grinned back at her. He was actually getting a kick out of this, she realised in shock.

The entire class had collapsed into riotous laughter around them. Snape promptly silenced them in his own inimitable style; a threat of a week's detention and twenty points from Gryffindor House, five points from Slytherin. He walked to the front of the class and to Hermione's relief cleared the board with a wave of his hand. She was only half listening as he started the lesson.

So much for ignoring it and it would go away. No wonder the rumours were flying – Draco was doing nothing to quash them; if anything, he was fuelling them.

* * *

When the lesson was over, Hermione unexpectedly thrust her books into Harry's arms and asked him if he would take them back to the Gryffindor common room. He looked at her quizzically as he struggled to contain them all, but nodded. “Sure.”

“Thanks,” she said over her shoulder. She was already weaving between the desks. People on their way to the door nudged each other and stopped to watch. Draco had his back to her, but Pansy saw her approaching and scowled. Hermione ignored her. “Can I have a word with you?”

Draco looked over his shoulder at her. “You don't have to ask, Muggles.”

“Outside,” she said through gritted teeth, aware that Snape was also watching them through narrowed eyes from behind his desk.

Pansy opened her mouth, more than likely to object, but Draco shoved her towards the door. “I'll catch you up,” he said firmly. At first it didn't appear she was going to leave, but then she caught Draco's eye and turned sharply on her heel. Hermione stalked out after her and glared at all those who were hanging around. One by one they reluctantly drifted away.

Draco was leaning against the wall, arms folded, watching her with a mildly amused expression. When she turned to him, he grinned wickedly. “Couldn't wait to get me on your own, Granger?”

She glared at him. “What are you up to, Malfoy?”

The innocent expression on his face looked completely out of place. “I don't know what you're talking about, Muggles.”

“And stop calling me that!” Her temper was starting to rise. Damn him, he always knew what buttons to press. 

As if reading her mind, he pushed away from the wall and approached her slowly. She stood her ground despite the dangerous look in his eyes. “I enjoy seeing you squirm, Granger,” he whispered as he circled her closely. So closely that the sleeve of his robes brushed against hers. Hermione's breath caught in her throat. He reminded her of a wild beast playing games with its prey before the kill. “That must have been hard to swallow,” he continued, pausing before her, “to learn that I'm your soulmate instead of Potter or the Weasel.” 

“You don't believe that rubbish any more than I do,” she retorted, meeting his gaze defiantly.

“Maybe not,” he replied smoothly. “But it's intriguing all the same...” That sentence was left hanging in the air. He raised a hand and Hermione recoiled. “Oh get a grip, Granger,” he muttered irritably. She watched as he reached for the house crest on her robes. The charm was fading slightly but it was still obvious. “Not bad, Zabini,” he chuckled, stroking the bewitched embroidery with his thumb. It was such a gentle caress, not what she had expected at all. And neither was what happened next.

“The snake...” Draco's voice had softened. He lifted his eyes to meet hers. “And the lion...”

Hermione swallowed somewhat nervously at his abrupt change in demeanour.

“...inextricably entwined.”

For a moment, their eyes locked and a shiver ran down Hermione's spine at his words. “It will fade!” she hissed, pulling her robes from his touch. She was _not_ going to be Draco Malfoy's prey.

The moment was broken. Draco leered at her. “Maybe, Granger, but not completely.” His eyes strayed lazily down her slender figure, eliciting another shiver from her in response.

“Look, Malfoy,” she seethed, hoping he hadn't noticed. “I've had enough of this. If you, or Zabini and his silly drawings, don't stop then I'm–”

“Drawings?”

Hermione narrowed her eyes at him but quickly realised from his puzzled expression that he didn't have a clue what she was referring to. She sighed and reached into her bag. After a quick fumble around she pulled out the remaining drawing from the History of Magic class. It was one of the less expressive ones but she still hesitated before holding it out to him. 

Draco took it from her and one glance at it made him laugh out loud. Hermione scowled at him. He watched as animated Hermione looped her arms around animated Draco's neck and lifted herself, wrapping her legs around his waist as she was pushed up quite firmly against the edge of the paper. Before his image could dip his head for a kiss, the drawing froze and looped back to the beginning. “You kept this?” Draco asked, tearing his eyes from the scene with a huge smirk.

Hermione opened her mouth to deny his accusation but shut it again as he raised an eyebrow. She couldn't deny it because she _had_ kept it. She, Harry and Ron had collected all the others after the lesson ended and destroyed them. Why had she held on to this one? She pushed to the back of her mind the fact that she would accidentally catch glimpses of it each time she went looking in her bag for something, and the tingle it gave her in the pit of her stomach whenever she did. 

Draco grinned at her. “Want it back, Granger?”

She knew she should have told him where to stick it but for some unfathomable reason she held out her hand. She almost saw what he was going to do before it happened. In a blatant nod at that morning's scene in the Great Hall, he lifted the paper up over his head and said, “Come and get it then...”

Hermione stared at him for a moment, then turned on her heel. “Get lost, Malfoy,” she spat over her shoulder, but she only managed a few strides before Draco caught hold of her arm. “Get off me,” she snapped, shrugging free and turning back to face him. He held the paper out, pushing it into her hand when she ignored his gesture, forcing her to take it.

“Why would I want to stop, Muggles?” he answered to her previous warning. “I'm enjoying myself.”

“I'm sure Pansy can keep you amused if you're that desperate!” she retaliated through clenched teeth.

“Granger, that wouldn't happen to be a note of jealousy I detect in your voice?” Draco grinned again as an incensed Hermione fumbled with the pocket her wand was kept in. He turned away with a satisfied smile. “Pansy has her uses, believe me,” he remarked as he strolled down the corridor, slipping into the Slytherin common room seconds before Hermione's Trip Jinx hit the bare wall and dissolved into a sprinkling of sparks.

She whirled away in the opposite direction, furious with herself for reacting as she had. Once again she had given him exactly what he wanted. Suddenly desperate for some time on her own, she decided to give Gryffindor Tower a miss and instead headed to the girls' bathroom on the second floor. Although it had been restored to full working order after the events of their second year at Hogwarts, hardly anybody used the bathroom due to Moaning Myrtle's presence. Thankfully, Myrtle was nowhere in sight when Hermione entered. She slammed into one of the cubicles and sat down on the edge of the toilet bowl.

What a mess. No matter what she said or did, she knew she couldn't do anything to prevent the rumours that were being spread, especially with Draco playing up to them. And all because she was too stubborn to back down when he had challenged her that morning, igniting an interest in them among their classmates. And now this whole Divination thing was only fanning the flames even more. Despite what she had said about ignoring it and people would soon become bored, she knew that the idea of herself and Draco Malfoy even so much as being civil to one another was a big deal. Their bitter dislike for each other, and the history behind it, was common knowledge. It was second only to Draco's intense rivalry with Harry. The fact that Draco was a Slytherin and she a Gryffindor barely factored into matters. He was a pureblood, son of a Death Eater. They who tortured and killed Muggle-borns, like herself, for fun. That was where the sensation lay. For this reason alone she knew no one would seriously consider the rumours to be true, or at least she hoped not. No, it was nothing more than a bit of fun for everyone; blowing up a story out of absolutely nothing for their own enjoyment. Just another distraction from the seriousness of the situation beyond the walls of Hogwarts. Even so, Hermione found herself stunned that people who knew her would so readily spread lies about someone they professed to know and like. She snorted in disgust; the school was full of wannabe Rita Skeeters' it seemed. 

A familiar watery giggle came from the adjacent cubicle. Hermione groaned and grabbed her bag, scooting out of the bathroom just as Moaning Myrtle floated up the U-bend. Before the door slammed shut behind her, she heard Myrtle call after her in delight, “So, Little Miss Goody Two-Shoes has fallen off her pedestal!”

* * *

Hermione couldn't concentrate at all during Herbology the following morning. She couldn't get her mind off Draco Malfoy, and it was not for lack of trying; the last person she wanted in her head was him. But no matter how hard she focused on Professor Sprout's instructions, Draco would find a way to invade her thoughts. Consequently, she finished the lesson sporting a comically-sized bandage on her thumb, the result of a bite from a Maybeak, a particularly nasty variety of carnivorous cucumber. It had taken both Ron and Harry to prise it off, and in turn it had bitten Ron on the nose which was now swollen to nearly twice its size, making him breathe with an audible rasp. Madam Pomfrey had refused to do little other than clean the wounds and bandage them, or in Ron's case cover it with the tiniest of plasters, which only served to make him look more ridiculous. She claimed it would ensure they paid more attention in class in future. Ron hadn't been happy, protesting that he had only been helping to get the offending plant off Hermione's thumb.

He was still bemoaning his misfortune to anyone who would listen as they made their way outside later that day to enjoy the early evening sunlight. Hermione followed, still lost in thought. She kept asking herself the same question and for once could come up with no answers; how was she going to deal with Draco? Today had been markedly better than yesterday but that was due in part to having had no lessons with either him or Blaise that day, not to mention skipping breakfast and lunch and eating only a very brief dinner. The gnawing in her stomach told her that this wasn't something she could continue for long. The taunts from everyone else were as ruthless as she had expected and showed no sign of abating anytime soon, but to her surprise it didn't bother her as much as she had thought it would. What did bother her was Draco and his new-found way of getting under her skin. At least when he was insulting her there were clear boundaries. But this almost-flirting, as she was calling it, was different. It unsettled her. She didn’t know how to react to it and he was taking advantage of the fact. 

“Um, Hermione?” Ron's nasally voice broke into her musings. 

She blinked, realising with a start that she had almost walked right into Professor McGonagall. “Sorry, Professor,” she mumbled, stepping back. 

McGonagall gave her a stern look. “Do watch where you are walking, Miss Granger.” She turned to Harry. “Professor Dumbledore requests your presence in his office, Potter,” she said in her no-nonsense voice. “Follow me.”

Harry glanced at Ron and Hermione and shrugged, then trotted after her.

“Again?!” Ron exclaimed. “What for this time?”

Hermione shook her head distractedly. 

“What's up with you anyway?” Ron asked, poking at his bulbous nose for the millionth time. 

Hermione turned away from the retreating figures of Harry and McGonagall and continued walking. “I'm okay,” she replied noncommittally. 

Ron caught her up and stepped in front of her, forcing her to stop. “No you’re not. What is it?” He peered at her closely. “Is it because of Malfoy?” Hermione gave a tight-lipped nod and resumed her walk, Ron falling into step beside her. “What's he up to?” he pondered. “All that bloody Muggles stuff...”

Hermione grunted. “Change of tactic, or so it would appear. It's only taken him five years to figure out that being his usual obnoxious self has little effect on me, so he's being nice instead. The only problem is,” she admitted reluctantly, “it's working.”

“But I don't get it. Why is he singling you out? It's always been all three of us before.”

Hermione stared at him curiously. “Are you jealous, Ronald Weasley?” 

Ron went red. “No, don't be daft.” He gave an embarrassed cough. “But it's a bit weird, don't you think?”

Hermione's brow wrinkled in thought. He did have a point.

“Well, just ignore him,” Ron advised, then remembered who he was talking to. Hermione looked up at him as she sat down on a tree stump near Hagrid's Hut. He grinned back at her. “Yeah, I know. That's like me telling Mum that I really _don't_ need another jumper for Christmas this year.”

Hermione couldn't help but smile. Ron sat on the grass beside her and for a while they chatted about other things, mainly what Dumbledore wanted with Harry. By the time they got up again, they'd exhausted just about every possibility, laughing long and hard over the suggestion of a polyjuiced Voldemort shuffling around in Dumbledore's ageing body and needing somebody to go to Hogsmeade to buy him some Fizzing Whizzbees. But the good mood faded as they headed to the Great Hall for a light supper and the conversation revolved back to Draco Malfoy. 

Hermione spotted him sat at the Slytherin table, flanked by Crabbe and Blaise and surrounded by a host of fellow Slytherins from various years. They were all laughing at something Blaise had said, and Hermione suddenly decided that she wasn't that hungry after all. Ron bumped into her from behind as she halted unexpectedly in the doorway, knocking his nose on the back of her head. “Bloody hell!” he cursed. “Could you give me some warning next time?” He clutched at his face, a trickle of blood running from his left nostril.

Hermione grimaced and handed him a clean handkerchief from her pocket. “Sorry...”

Ron took it and tried his best to pinch his nose shut to stem the flow but it was far too swollen and sore. “This is useless,” he grumbled eventually. “I'm going back to Madam Pomfrey and this time I'm not leaving until she fixes it.” He threw a departing glance towards Draco. “You know, I can't see why you don't just play him at his own game.”

Hermione watched him go with a thoughtful expression on her face. Play him at his own game? She turned back to the Great Hall, her eyes seeking out Draco once more. A slow smile spread across her face. Maybe that wasn't as absurd as it sounded.

* * *

There was still no sign of Harry over an hour later and Hermione was starting to get worried. With the Voldemort situation so precariously balanced, an announcement of war could come at any time. On both occasions that Harry had been summoned to Dumbledore's office in the last couple of days she had secretly feared the worst. Yesterday her fears had proved unfounded. But tonight this prolonged disappearance troubled her.

Ron had returned from his trip to the hospital wing looking as green as the cucumber which had bit him. Madam Pomfrey had sorted out his nosebleed, then given him one of her more potent medicines to negate any poison remaining from the earlier plant bite. She had insisted he didn't need it, that it was extremely rare for anyone to be allergic to Maybeak juice, but Ron had been adamant. Something he now regretted. He had slinked straight off to bed accompanied by a big bowl and muttering something unintelligible about slugs. 

Hermione gazed around the Gryffindor common room. Neville had been sat in the armchair by the empty fireplace for the past forty-five minutes, clutching his glowing Remembrall and trying desperately to remember whatever it was he had forgotten. Seamus Finnigan and Dean Thomas were huddled around a table in the corner, papers spread out in front of them. Instinct told her it wasn't any last minute essay they were working on. Parvati and Lavender were stood beside them, blocking her view somewhat and giggling uncontrollably. She watched them suspiciously, wondering if this business with Draco was making her paranoid. But then they all burst into laughter and Hermione caught Dean's sly glance at her. Irritation surged through her as she got to her feet and stomped over to the portrait. Was it just her imagination or did the Fat Lady appear to be smirking at her too? 

It was a relief when she found herself alone in the corridor, although now that she was there she wasn't sure what to do. After a moment of deliberation she headed in the direction of Dumbledore's office, hoping to come across Harry on his way back. There was no sign of him, however. The stone gargoyle that guarded the entrance to the stairwell gazed back at her impassively, its hewn visage seeming to mock her as she threw incorrect password guesses at it. She didn't know what she hoped to achieve; even if she did chance upon the right one, she was hardly about to barge into Dumbledore's office demanding to see Harry. She turned away in frustration when 'chocolate frogs' got her nowhere but was immediately brought up short by the sound of approaching voices. Moments later, Professor McGonagall and a bespectacled man with greying hair rounded the corner. Hermione instantly recognised the limping man as Rufus Scrimgeour, the new Minister of Magic following Cornelius Fudge's sacking. McGonagall's eyebrows rose when she saw Hermione. “Yes, Miss Granger? What can we do for you?” 

Scrimgeour acknowledged Hermione's polite greeting with a nod, but he seemed impatient to be on his way so she drew a deep breath and asked, “Professor, I was wondering where Harry is?”

McGonagall's eyes narrowed. “That, Miss Granger, is of no concern to you.” She glanced at the Minister, who gave a brief nod, before continuing. “However, suffice it to say he has left the school for the evening and will be back in the morning. Pear Drops!” 

Hermione opened her mouth to ask where he had gone but McGonagall suggested firmly that she should return to Gryffindor Tower before curfew. With that, she followed Scrimgeour past the gargoyle and up the stairs, the hideous stone creature leaping back into place behind them.

Hermione was beyond worried now. _What in Merlin's name is going on?_ If the Minister of Magic himself was involved, then there was only one explanation she could think of. She chewed anxiously on her thumbnail. Now she had two things preying on her mind.

* * *

Hermione's footsteps echoed as she made her way back along the deserted seventh floor corridors. As she neared Gryffindor Tower, she became convinced that she saw movements in the shadows thrown by the lit torches on the walls and had an unerring feeling that someone was watching her. Putting it down to Peeves the poltergeist, or one of the more salacious ghosts that roamed the school, she quickened her pace all the same. Nevertheless, she was caught completely off guard when someone grabbed her from behind just as she was about to give the password to the Fat Lady. Her assailant pulled her backwards down a small side corridor and hauled her into a store cupboard. She was astounded when she turned around to find Pansy Parkinson stood against the door, glaring at her. “I don't know what you think you're doing, Granger, but it ends right now.”

“What does?” Hermione asked, her head still whirling.

“Don't act dumb with me. You know what I'm talking about.” 

After the last couple of days, Hermione decided she really wasn't in the mood for this. “Actually, I _don't_ know what you're talking about. Now if you don't mind...” She made a move for the door but was pushed back roughly. Pansy's slight stature belied her strength. 

“I'm not finished with you yet,” she hissed, pulling her wand out.

“Well, I'm finished with you,” Hermione retorted, making another move for the door. “Get out of my way.”

Pansy planted herself in front of Hermione, pointing her wand squarely at the other girl. “This is your first and last warning. Stay away from Draco.” 

“What?” 

“You heard me.”

Hermione considered the absurdity of the situation and couldn't decide which was more ridiculous; being trapped in a store cupboard with Pansy Parkinson, of all people, holding a wand to her face or being warned to stay away from someone she would be perfectly happy never to see again. In the end, she couldn't help herself and laughed out loud. “You've lost it, Pansy, you really have.”

Pansy glowered at her. “I mean it, Granger. If I see you throwing yourself at him like you did yesterday, I'll make sure you regret it.” She whipped around and yanked the door open. Hermione watched her leave in stunned silence. _Throwing herself at him?_ The door slammed shut in a cloud of dust, making her sneeze. _What in Merlin's name is wrong with everyone this term?_


	3. The Accidental Horcrux

_Disclaimer: Characters, locations and certain plot details of this chapter are owned by JK Rowling and her respective publishers. I do not own Harry Potter (unfortunately), and I am not making any money from this story._

 

**Chapter Three**

**The Accidental Horcrux**

Hermione and Ron were in the Great Hall the following morning, just sitting down for breakfast, when Harry returned. News of his disappearance had somehow passed beyond the walls of Gryffindor Tower during the night, and now the entire school was debating where he was and why he had so mysteriously vanished. The overwhelming consensus seemed to be that something had happened to him at the hands of Voldemort and that he would likely never be seen again; bets were even being placed among the Slytherins as to his fate. So his reappearance caused quite a stir. He made his way between the Gryffindor and Ravenclaw tables, fending off questions from both sides with noncommittal answers, until he dropped down onto the bench beside Hermione. He looked utterly exhausted. 

Ron leaned forward, no doubt to ask the same questions that everybody else wanted answering, but was swiftly silenced by a kick under the table, Hermione fixing him with a glare so fierce that he promptly stuffed a forkful of beans and sausage into his mouth instead and turned back to his copy of The Quibbler. She handed Harry a plate of fried egg on toast, which he accepted with the barest trace of a smile but made no attempt at eating. She knew he would tell them what was wrong in his own time, provided Dumbledore's request that he discuss it with no one didn't still hold. Either way, if the expression on his face was anything to go by, the last thing he needed was the two of them subjecting him to an inquisition on the matter. She felt a flutter of fear in her stomach as she surveyed him discreetly. Unless she was very much mistaken, the rumours that had been circulating the school overnight were not too far off the mark. This did have something to do with Voldemort. Harry's face was pale, the lines of stress and strain clearly visible as he stared down at his breakfast with blank, heavily lidded eyes. His scar stood out red and angry, visible even beneath the strands of hair that fell over it; if anything the contrast of the dark hair against it made it more noticeable this morning. Eventually he pushed away the untouched plate of food and pulled his glasses off, running a hand over his face wearily. He caught Hermione's worried gaze and sighed. “It's not good news.” 

Hermione looked down at her own plate, her appetite slipping away. “Voldemort?” she whispered, not entirely sure she wanted an answer to that question. Ron shifted uncomfortably at the mention of the name and glanced between the two of them. 

“Who else?” Harry mumbled. He looked around at the noisy Gryffindor table, acutely aware that he was the subject of most of the conversation not just there, but across the other three tables too. “I can't talk here.” 

Hermione nodded. “Outside, then? Down by the lake?” 

Harry yawned in reply. “Okay, but it will have to be at lunchtime. I need to get some sleep first.” 

“You should have gone straight to bed,” Hermione admonished him gently. “You look awful.” 

“Thanks,” Harry replied dryly. 

“You know what I mean.” 

“Yeah, I know. Take it up with Dumbledore; he was the one who suggested I show up for breakfast first, to silence the rumours that have apparently been doing the rounds.” 

“More than just doing the rounds,” Hermione admitted. “I think one of the Slytherin seventh years actually had ten Galleons on you having been abducted from your bed by Voldemort himself.”

Harry snorted and pushed himself up off the bench, giving his nodded assent to Ron as the redhead hesitantly eyed Harry's plate. “Go for it. I don't think I could eat it anyway, even if I was hungry.” Ron slid the plate towards him and deposited the egg and toast atop his beans. Hermione watched in irritation, wondering how he could even look at food after hearing what Harry had just said. 

“Anyway, I'll see you later.” Harry turned to leave but held back as a tremendous amount of flapping, accompanied by a chorus of hoots, drew everyone's attention. Both he and Hermione looked up as the owls delivering the morning post swept down from overhead, searching for the recipients of their mail. 

Hermione's eyes opened wide, almost as wide as Ron's did. It appeared that every person in the room must have received mail that morning. The ceiling of the Great Hall, which had been depicting a cloudless blue sky, was almost obscured by the sheer number of birds flying about. The three friends watched as the owls swooped, dropping letters and a few parcels into outstretched hands. Ron's little Pigwidgeon glided down and deposited a cream envelope addressed in black script into Ron's cup of tea. He picked the dripping envelope out just as Pig was bowled aside by Hedwig. Harry's owl landed gracefully on his shoulder and turned to face him, hooting forlornly as if picking up on his mood. The letter she carried was also cream with black lettering. 

Hermione glanced around. Seamus, Dean and Neville all had one, as did Lavender, Parvati, Fay, and even Ginny Weasley. Looking behind her at the Ravenclaw table, it appeared they all had one too. Why was she the only one not to receive one? _Not quite the only one_ , she amended, her eyes settling on the table on the far side of the room where an empty-handed Draco Malfoy was wrestling another of the cream envelopes from Blaise, who it appeared had been hit with a giggling charm; he was laughing so hard he was doubled up. She glanced back down the Gryffindor table, noting how Dean, Seamus, Lavender, and Parvati were also afflicted with fits of the giggles, so much so that their envelopes lay untouched. Her eyes narrowed suspiciously as she recalled the previous night in the common room, when she had been sure they were up to something. 

Ron's jaw dropped upon opening his, and the look he gave her confirmed her suspicions. She held out her hand in a no-nonsense manner and Ron reluctantly placed the contents of the envelope in her palm. It was a matching cream card with two rings illustrated on the cover; one a silver band with a golden lion engraved around it, and the other a gold band engraved with a silver serpent. Hermione groaned. The noise level in the Great Hall went up considerably as others opened their envelopes to the same. With trepidation, she opened the card. In the same black script, it read:

_Gryffindor House wishes to announce it will be holding a celebration feast in honour of the forthcoming Bonding between_

_**Hermione Granger** _

_and (for reasons* beyond our comprehension) Slytherin House's very own pet ferret,_

_**Draco Malfoy** _

_~_

_Everyone is invited!_

_Menu will consist of Wild Cherry Soup, Duck with a Wild Cherry Sauce, and Spiced Wild Cherry Cheesecake  
(Wild Cherries are in no way poisonous to ferrets. Honest!) _

_Date to be confirmed._

_In the meantime, we shall do all we can to help Hermione recover from her apparent head injury._

_*we can only assume Hermione has heard about the mating rituals of ferrets, and quite likes the idea of being dragged around by her hair._

Hermione clutched the card so tightly her fingertips turned white. She didn't know whether to laugh or cry. Harry reacted first, tearing his card up into little pieces and throwing them onto the table in disgust.

“Pathetic,” he spat, and left without another word, a flapping Hedwig still perched precariously on his shoulder. Hermione desperately wanted to follow but she didn't have the luxury of coherent movement right at that moment. Or coherent thought, for that matter. “What in the name of–” she began, looking up at a bemused Ron. “Can you– I don't–” She broke off; coherent speech also seemed to be lacking. Draco, however, seemed to have no such problem. He was in the middle of a one-sided argument with a still-giggling Blaise. As Hermione watched, he threw the card and its envelope back at his friend and rose smoothly to his feet, his face a carefully schooled mask of impassiveness. He picked up his bag, said something to a bewildered Pansy Parkinson who had just arrived and missed the commotion, and strode out of the Hall. Only the tautness of his posture revealed any sign of his anger. Pansy, meanwhile, had picked up the card and read it, and was now in the middle of making it spontaneously combust. She then proceeded down the length of the Slytherin table, snatching up every card one by one and incinerating them too. When she stalked over to the Hufflepuff table and started on their cards, no one dared to protest. One look at her livid expression saw to that. 

Hermione stared at the scattered remains of Harry's card, one clearly still showing the serpent ring, and slowly an idea began to form in her mind. She waved the card in her hand at Ron. “May I?” 

Ron shrugged. “Be my guest.” 

She stood and weaved her way between the tables to where Dean and Seamus were sitting, trying and failing to control their laughter. They soon sobered up, however, when they saw her steaming towards them; a pissed off Hermione was not something to be laughed at. “Hermione–” Dean started, but she cut him off. 

“I read about an interesting spell the other day, when I was flicking through this year's Charms textbook.” She dropped the card on the table between them and snatched out her wand. “Would you like to see it?” Without acknowledging their panicked replies, she grabbed Seamus' right hand and dragged it alongside Dean's left. Before they could pull away she muttered _'Redimio'_ , and both boys watched as a thin thread of magic wound out from her wand and wrapped itself tightly around their wrists.

“Male Bonding Spell?” inquired Kevin Entwhistle, leaning across from the Ravenclaw table to get a better view. “Nice...”

Hermione nodded. “I felt it was appropriate.”

“What does it do..?” Dean asked uneasily, poking the glowing thread. It pulsed brightly at his touch.

“Forces you to spend twenty-four hours in each others' company,” Hermione replied with a self-satisfied smile. “Enjoy your day.” 

Dean and Seamus looked at each other in horror. Best friends they might be, but a whole day? Apart from the rather obvious problems that could present, Dean had planned to spend some time alone with his girlfriend, Ginny, that evening. And he had no intention of sharing that with Seamus. He jumped up as Hermione turned to leave. Unfortunately for him, Seamus didn't and the force that bound their wrists together brought him back to his seat with a thump. “Hermione,” he pleaded. “Look, it was only a joke. I'm – _we're_ – sorry.” 

Hermione ignored him as she walked away. 

“We can't stay like this all day!” he tried again. 

“I'm afraid you have no choice, seeing as only the caster can cancel it,” she replied over her shoulder, adding, “which isn't going to happen, before you ask.” She left Ron to finish Harry's breakfast and made for the doors, her intention to head back to her dormitory and add a little more to her Transfiguration essay before lessons started. But as she left the Hall, Draco Malfoy stepped in front of her. She barely avoided bumping into him. 

He smiled. “Don't worry, I won't bite.” 

Hermione glowered at him. “What do you want?” 

He peered past her into the Great Hall. Neville Longbottom was waving his wand haphazardly over Dean's and Seamus' conjoined wrists while they tried desperately to get away from him. “I take it they were responsible for the sudden increase in owl activity this morning?” 

Hermione nodded and pursed her lips impatiently. “I dealt with them.” 

Draco smirked down at her. “So I see.” 

“If that's all...” Hermione stepped around him but he reached out and grabbed her wrist as she went past. She immediately snatched free of his hold. “What do you want from me, Malfoy?”

His eyes glittered dangerously as he moved closer. Hermione responded by taking a step away from him, and then wished she hadn't as he swooped on it and used it against her. “What's the matter, Muggles?” he leered, playing up to the small crowd they had attracted. “Would you rather I kept my distance until after we're Bonded?” 

She heard some sniggers behind her that faded as she looked over her shoulder. From the corner of her eye, she spotted Ron leaving the Great Hall. Now, she supposed, was as good a time as any to put his idea into practise. When she turned back, Draco was watching her intently. She briefly considered Pansy's threat from the previous night and knew that the Slytherin girl would be furious at what she was about to do. But something about that thought rather appealed to her. She could almost envisage the look on the girl's pug-shaped face when she heard about it, and decided it served her right for accusing her of throwing herself at Draco in the first place. Taking a steadying breath, she flashed Draco the sweetest, most sugary smile she could manage, one Dolores Umbridge herself would have been proud of. “What's the matter, Draco? Not getting frustrated, are you?” She touched a hand to his cheek. “But then, considering who your girlfriend is, I suppose that's understandable.” She walked away without giving him the chance to respond, hurrying over to where Ron was waiting with a broad grin on his face. She slipped her arm through his and they hastened up the stairs together, giggling like children, leaving a stunned Draco Malfoy staring after them.

* * *

Harry slept until midday.

Ron and Hermione had foregone their lunch and were waiting for him down by the lake as arranged, in the spot where they always met when they wanted to talk in private. The same spot where Harry’s father, James, used to meet his own friends during his time at Hogwarts. The two watched as Harry approached with the air of someone with the weight of the world on his shoulders. Hermione patted the grass next to her and he sank down with an audible sigh. For a while no one spoke. The birds whistled and chirruped merrily in the trees and a large white butterfly fluttered past, hotly pursued by a bumblebee. Hermione swatted it away casually. 

And then, with two simple words, Harry shattered the calm and tranquillity. “It's beginning.” 

Ron's face instantly paled. Hermione was all attention. “What do you mean?” she demanded. 

“Exactly what I said. It's beginning.” Harry’s calm, controlled voice made the moment seem that much more unreal. 

Hermione glanced at Ron. His mouth was hanging open, aghast. “The war?” she asked, wanting to be sure of what she was hearing. 

Harry nodded. “According to Snape, Voldemort has started gathering his Death Eaters from across the continent. The first ones arrived in the country yesterday and within hours a Muggle family were found dead in Kent. There's no doubt it was Death Eaters,” Harry added, seeing the look on Hermione's face. “They left the Dark Mark over their house. The Ministry is taking the attack very seriously; they're already working with the Muggle government to increase awareness and tighten security.” 

Hermione's face grew progressively darker as she listened. 

“Never mind the Ministry!” Ron's voice squeaked in a way it hadn't since it had broken several years ago. His freckles stood out starkly on his pale face. “What's Dumbledore going to do?” 

Harry shifted uneasily. “Well, nothing really. He insists that as long as we have Snape keeping an eye on Voldemort, there's no need to do anything rash.” 

“What?” Ron looked appalled. “He's just going to sit back and put all his trust in _Snape?_ Put our safety into Snape's hands?!” 

“Of course he isn't,” Hermione snapped at him. Ron's gaze turned to her. His mouth was opening and closing in a manner reminiscent of a fish. She studied Harry's face expectantly. 

“Dumbledore believes that as long as Voldemort remains unaware of Snape's betrayal,” Harry continued, “the stronger the position we're in.” 

Ron didn't look in the least bit reassured. “And how do we know that he's not double-crossing us?! He can't be trusted; we all know that. Why can't Dumbledore see it too?” 

“He's not even going to tighten security here at Hogwarts?” Hermione interjected. 

Harry took a deep breath, thinking his next words through carefully. “Apparently that wouldn't make much difference.” 

Hermione frowned at him. “Why wouldn't it?” 

“Because Hogwarts isn't as impenetrable as we've been led to believe,” he explained. “The truth is that ever since Voldemort returned, Hogwarts has been living on borrowed time.” 

Ron looked close to fainting. There was no colour in his face at all now, even his freckles had gone. His eyes were blank as they gazed away into the distance. 

Hermione stared at Harry. “Are you saying that Voldemort could have...” She faltered. “At any time?” 

“Theoretically, yes.” 

“Why didn't he?” 

Harry shrugged. “Dumbledore thinks it's because he wanted to test his influence again first. To see how many of his Death Eaters remained loyal to him. It might not be impossible, but it won't be easy either. Definitely not something he can do alone.” 

Hermione nodded grimly. “That would make sense.” 

Harry looked over his shoulder at the jagged outline of Hogwarts, looking hauntingly beautiful silhouetted by the dazzling sun. “It's only a matter of time though.” 

Hermione followed his gaze. “Do you think he will?” she whispered. 

“Yes,” he replied, in a matter-of-fact voice. “So much of Voldemort is tied to this school. It symbolises everything he used to be. The Tom Riddle whose life he hated.” He looked down at his hands clenched in his lap. “And it also symbolises everything that he considers a threat.” 

Hermione swallowed. “Because of Dumbledore. And... because of you. Because you're here.” 

It wasn't a question, and Harry didn't answer. 

There was another lengthy silence. Hermione looked around her at the other students mingling about, laughing and joking with each other. In the distance she spotted Hagrid, striding towards his hut with a bunch of wriggling carrots grasped in one hand. It all felt so surreal. “This is it, then,” she breathed, as if putting it into words would make it feel more believable. “The second war...” 

Harry's eyes met hers. “You know what this means, don't you?” 

Hermione's eyes shone with unshed tears. “You ... and Voldemort ... the prophecy...” 

Harry reached up to rub his burning scar. “Speaking of which,” he continued grimly, “I've since found out that the memory I was shown of the prophecy was incomplete.” 

Confusion crossed Hermione's face. “Incomplete? In what way?” 

“Dumbledore withheld a part of it.” 

“Why?” 

“Because he didn't think I was ready to hear it. He showed it to me last night.” 

“Why now? Because of what's happened?” 

“Yes.” 

“And..?” 

Harry's eyes bored into hers. “I can't defeat Voldemort, at least not alone.” 

There was a stunned silence. Hermione blinked in bewilderment. “What do you mean, you can't defeat him alone?” she asked. “It was the prophecy that said you would be the one to do it; how can it contradict itself like that?” 

Harry ran his hands through his untidy hair. “Voldemort's evil, Hermione–”

“Tell us something we don't already know...” Ron muttered.

“–you have no idea,” Harry continued, ignoring the interruption, “NO idea what he's done.” 

“Can you tell us?” 

Harry bit down on his bottom lip as he considered Hermione's question. “Well, Dumbledore is still insisting that I discuss it with no one yet, but in all honesty I think I'm going to need your help. What Voldemort's done is the worst kind of magic there is. It means there's only one wizard alive who can bring about his death.” 

“And he marked you as that wizard,” Hermione broke in. “The prophecy confirmed that.” She frowned. “How could it have been wrong? I don't understand.” 

“It's not wrong, at least not that bit.” Harry hesitated, trying to find a simpler way of explaining. He decided to recount what Dumbledore had told him the night before. 

_Harry stared in disbelief at Dumbledore. Had he heard him right? He shifted awkwardly, trying to ignore the oppressive presence of Snape behind him. He could almost feel the Potions teacher's eyes on his back, burning into him. It made his skin crawl. Next to Snape stood Rufus Scrimgeour. It was the first time he had met the new Minister of Magic. Harry was unsure what he thought of the man; on the one hand he seemed to be a more sensible candidate for the position than his predecessor. He was obviously someone who would take control of the Ministry and not be afraid of making tough decisions, something Fudge had lacked. But there was also something about his nature that warned Harry against giving him his absolute trust. He struck him as the kind of person who would not hesitate to use someone in whatever manner he saw appropriate if it was in the greater interest._

_“What do you mean, Professor?” Harry asked, trying to make sense of what Dumbledore had just said. “Are you saying that everything you told me – all that stuff about how one day I have to kill Voldemort – was a lie?”_

_“Not a lie, no.”_

_“Then what?”_

_There was a short pause. “I'm afraid I haven't been entirely open with you, Harry.”_

_Harry knew he should have seen this coming. “Again, Professor?” He was thoroughly fed up of Dumbledore's secrets by now._

_Dumbledore gave him a contrite smile. “I can only apologise. As I have told you before, if I keep something from you it is because you aren't ready to know.” He began to pace slowly. "Unfortunately, as you have just heard, my hand has been forced in this matter.”_

_Harry was still awaiting an answer to his initial question. “What do you mean, Professor?” he asked again. “Why can't I defeat Voldemort?”_

_“You can't defeat him alone,” Dumbledore corrected._

_Harry was becoming more confused the more Dumbledore tried to explain. “But the prophecy..? It said I would be the one to kill him.”_

_“And that is true.” Dumbledore turned to face him. Harry noticed for the first time that he was holding a book. “Do you recognise this?”_

_Harry nodded slowly. It was Tom Riddle's diary. Dumbledore handed it to him and Harry accepted it somewhat reluctantly. He turned it over in his lap and ran his fingers over the stained cover, tracing the hole left by the Basilisk fang._

_“Tell me, Harry, have you given any consideration to what happened in the Chamber of Secrets that day?”_

_Harry glanced up at Dumbledore. “To be honest, Professor, I've tried not to think about it at all.”_

_“Perfectly understandable.” He, too, reached out and touched a finger to the ragged edge of the puncture mark. “Do you have any idea why stabbing it with the Basilisk fang had the effect that it did?”_

_“Not really.”_

_Dumbledore waved his hand and a chair appeared behind him. He sat down heavily and leaned forward, his hands resting on his knees. “What you are holding there isn't simply a diary, as you are well aware. You saw the influence it had on Ginevra Weasley, and you know that in destroying it in the manner you did, you also destroyed the part of Tom Riddle that was locked within._

_“Harry, what I am about to tell you will most likely horrify you, and rightly so. But it is something you must hear. And not just hear, but understand.” He watched as Harry flicked through the empty pages. “This is perhaps the single most important thing I will ever teach you. Do I have your full attention?”_

_Harry rested the diary in his lap and turned his eyes to Dumbledore's. “Yes, Professor.”_

_“Many years ago, when Tom Riddle was a pupil at this school, he gained knowledge of something called a Horcrux. A Horcrux, put simply, is an object used to store a portion of a person's soul, created by the most abhorrent means imaginable. It is forbidden magic, Harry, but something such as that would have been inconsequential to the boy who was to become Lord Voldemort. Have you never asked yourself why he looks the way that he does?”_

_Harry shook his head. “I can't say that I have, no.”_

_“Then you should have, for that is the greatest indication to what he has done. Tom used to be a handsome young man, but throughout his early adulthood he started to change beyond recognition. You are holding one of the reasons for those changes in your lap. That diary is one of six Horcruxes that he created, each time ripping his soul apart in order to store a piece of it within them, becoming a little less human in the process. It is these Horcruxes alone which prevent him from being mortally wounded.”_

_It was as if a lamp had suddenly been lit, casting light into some of the darkest shadows of Harry's mind. He stared at Dumbledore, comprehension dawning in his eyes. “That's why he didn't die when the Killing Curse rebounded from me to him...”_

_“That is correct.”_

_“And this diary...” Harry picked it up. “When I stabbed it with the Basilisk fang, the ink that poured from it...”_

_“That was the visual manifestation of that particular part of Voldemort's soul being destroyed. Basilisk venom is one of only a handful of ways known to do this.”_

_“And to kill Voldemort,” Harry continued, his mind racing as all the pieces of the puzzle started to fall into place, “all of these Horcruxes must be destroyed?”_

_“Yes.”_

_There was a prolonged silence as Harry digested all this information. He could hear what he presumed was Scrimgeour fidgeting impatiently behind him, and the gentle snoring of Phineas Nigellus Black as the former headmaster slept soundly in his painting. For the first time in his life, Harry felt he had direction; he now knew how to defeat Voldemort, and the desire to set things in motion as quickly as possible was overwhelming. He met Dumbledore's steady gaze once again. “You said there were six of these Horcruxes, where can we find the others?”_

_Dumbledore reached silently for the sleeve covering his left hand and slowly pulled it back to reveal a swollen and extremely blackened hand._

_Harry reeled in shock at the sight. “Professor?” he gasped, searching the headmaster's face for an explanation._

_“Nothing to worry about, Harry,” Dumbledore reassured him. “It gives me no pain. But let it serve as a warning not to underestimate the power of a Horcrux.” He held out his damaged hand. A large gold ring set with a black stone adorned one of his fingers. Harry noticed that there was a crack splitting the stone in two. “This ring belonged to Tom Riddle's maternal family.”_

_“And it was also a Horcrux?”_

_Dumbledore nodded his affirmation._

_“What happened to it?”_

_“If you are referring to the crack which destroyed it, I need only to point you in the direction of the shelf behind my desk.” The sword of Godric Gryffindor lay in its glass case beside the Sorting Hat, glinting in the flames from the torches lighting the room. “When you used it to kill the Basilisk, you imbued its blade with the creature's venom. It will play an invaluable part in the eradication of the Horcruxes.”_

_“And if the sword isn't to hand?”_

_“There are other ways, but they are not to be recommended; however, as you have asked... The first would be the Killing Curse itself. But used on inanimate objects – as Horcruxes ... tend ... to be – it can have unpredictable results. The second is any one of a handful of spells so devastating that they are rarely, if ever, used. The most notable of these is Fiendfyre, something that can quickly burn out of control and even turn on the most experienced of casters.”_

_Harry leaned in closer to better inspect the ring. It looked fairly unremarkable; there was nothing about it to suggest what it had been used for other than the crack. He noticed, at this distance, what appeared to be a coat of arms engraved into the stone, presumably that of Voldemort's mother's family. “How can you be sure that there are only six?” he asked. It seemed to him to be a random number, with no reasoning behind it._

_“An excellent question, Harry.” Dumbledore smiled appreciatively at him. “Six Horcruxes would mean that the portion of soul remaining in Voldemort's body is the seventh. Seven is a very powerful number within the world of magic, and one that Tom Riddle is known to have attributed great importance to. Crucially, during his sixth year as a pupil here, he is known to have approached the head of Slytherin House with whom he discussed the subject of Horcruxes and the possibility of splitting the soul seven times.”_

_“But you don't know for certain?”_

_“No one does, with the exception of Voldemort himself. However, we are as certain as we can be. The soul can only be split a finite number of times. Anything more than seven would be pushing that limit beyond all reason.”_

_“Six, then.”_

_“Six,” Dumbledore agreed. “Which means that there are only four left to locate.”_

_Harry tore his eyes from the ring and looked up at the headmaster. “To locate? You don't know where they are then?”_

_“I'm afraid it's not quite as simple as that, Harry. In order for Horcruxes to be at their most effective they must be scattered far and wide, leaving nothing behind with which they can be traced. You can be sure that Voldemort will have hidden them well to protect them. Not only do we not know where they are, but we can't even be sure of what they are.”_

_Harry frowned. “Then what hope do we have of finding them?”_

_“Well, we have something in our favour. Tom Riddle himself.”_

_Harry gazed blankly at Dumbledore's smiling face._

_“I knew Tom personally from having taught him myself when he was a boy. I have some insight into the kind of person he was and, most importantly, what he valued. Between us–” he nodded in the direction of Snape and Scrimgeour “–we have gleaned what information we can from that, and have drawn reasonably informed conclusions as to what the remaining Horcruxes might be.”_

_“And what are those conclusions?”_

_“Tom was never one to form emotional attachments or bonds to either people or places. But there was one notable exception.” Dumbledore rose to his feet and turned on the spot with his arms outstretched. “Hogwarts itself. This was the first place he knew where he truly felt he belonged. Somewhere that he could call a home of sorts. So much so, in fact, that he even applied to teach here after he had left. He was, of course, turned down._

_“It is my belief that out of reverence to the school, and perhaps more than a little spite at having been denied a teaching position here, his remaining Horcruxes would have significant links to it.” Dumbledore's arms fell to his sides as he regarded Harry intently. “Four Horcruxes remaining. And what does Hogwarts have four of?”_

_Harry replied with the most obvious answer. “Four houses.”_

_Dumbledore nodded encouragingly. “Close enough, Harry. Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, Slytherin and Gryffindor. But they are not only the names of the four houses.”_

_“The founders of Hogwarts,” Harry supplied automatically._

_“Precisely.”_

_“So you think that the other Horcruxes will be objects which belonged to each of the founders?”_

_“Yes. And also that one, possibly more, might even be located within Hogwarts itself.” Dumbledore's face suddenly grew serious, the lines and wrinkles etched into his skin furrowing deeply as he studied Harry._

_Harry instantly tensed. He had seen that look once before, three months ago. The night of Sirius's death. He had been sitting in this very office, and Dumbledore had been wearing that very expression as Harry had asked him, '...does that mean that... that one of us has got to kill the other one... in the end?'_

_There was a deeply uncomfortable silence which no one seemed willing to break. Harry's thoughts returned to the question he had asked several moments previously, to which he had still received no answer. “What relevance is all this to me not being able to kill Voldemort alone?”_

_“Professor Dumbledore is just about to explain that, aren't you?” Scrimgeour's patience had finally run out._

_Dumbledore smiled sedately at him. “Indeed, Minister.” He addressed Harry again. “At the end of last term, I showed you my memory of the prophecy Sybill Trelawney made. However, there was a portion of it that I didn't show you. You would have seen it when the time was right; unfortunately, that time has arrived sooner than we anticipated.” He nodded to Snape, who took the Pensieve from its cabinet and placed it on Dumbledore's desk. Dumbledore peered at Harry. “This is the portion of the prophecy that I withheld.” He tapped his wand to his temple, withdrawing the silky threads of his memory, and then stirred it into the water._

_Harry rose from his seat and approached the Pensieve slowly. At a nod from Dumbledore, he leaned over and looked in. There was the revolving shape of Sybill Trelawney, draped in shawls as before, eyes bulging behind her thick glasses. Her voice was hoarse when she spoke._

_“To defeat this most challenging of foes, he must utilise the powers of an equal, one tainted with the blood of his black magic ancestry. A bearer of the mark of the Dark Lord himself...”_

“What's that supposed to mean?” Ron frowned. 

Harry shrugged noncommittally. “Dumbledore said I would understand when I needed to.” 

“You think he knows?” 

“I'm sure he does.” 

Hermione's eyes had glazed over. “Snape...” she whispered. 

Ron looked at her sharply. “Are you seriously suggesting he may need Snape's help to defeat Voldemort?” he asked with a deprecating snort. 

Hermione glared at him in exasperation. “I don't know! But he does fit the description, doesn't he?” 

The three of them sat in silence for a moment, considering this thought. For the first time in six years, Harry found himself fervently hoping Hermione was wrong. The last person he would ever ask for help would be Snape, regardless of what any prophecy said. 

“So, what happens now?” Ron asked eventually. 

“There's no way you're prepared to face Voldemort,” Hermione interjected, before Harry could answer. “You can't even Apparate yet.” 

“I don't think he's going to defeat Voldemort by Apparating, Hermione,” Ron remarked dryly. “Unless he Apparates on top of him and he keels over from the shock.” 

Hermione scowled at him. “I wasn't suggesting that. This isn't just about Voldemort, you know. There's a war starting and Harry's going to be at the heart of it. Being able to Apparate might just save him if the need arises.” 

“Well, it's funny you should say that,” Harry told her. “The Ministry have given me a special licence to learn while I'm underage; McGonagall is going to teach me in my spare time.” He hesitated. “And Snape will be giving me extra Defence Against the Dark Arts lessons as well.” 

“Are you serious?!” Hermione exclaimed. “After what happened with the Occlumency lessons?” 

“I don't have much choice,” Harry replied. “Time has all but run out. If I don't have these extra lessons, you're right. I won't be prepared.” 

Ron and Hermione both studied him; Ron's face unreadable, Hermione's visibly concerned. 

“That's not all,” he continued. “Last night I went with Dumbledore and Snape to Grimmauld Place. Do you remember that locket that we found last year, when we were cleaning out the drawing room?” 

“The one that no one could open...” Hermione frowned. “Wasn't it thrown out with the rest of the rubbish?” 

Harry nodded. “When Dumbledore told me about the Horcruxes, he mentioned a locket that belonged to Salazar Slytherin. I told him about the one we had found and he thinks it might be the same one, especially considering where we found it. Something like that would have made the perfect Horcrux.” 

“But if it was thrown out, it will be long gone. There's no way we will find it.” 

“That's just it, though, it wasn't thrown out.” 

Hermione's frown deepened in thought. Harry waited, fully expecting her to find the answer for herself. He wasn't disappointed. “Kreacher!” she exclaimed. 

“Precisely. He stole loads of things back from us, there was a good chance that the locket was among them. When we asked him about it, he eventually admitted that the locket was still within Grimmauld Place.” 

“But?” 

“He modified his own memory so that he wouldn't be able to reveal where.” 

“Which suggests that it could well be a Horcrux!” Hermione exclaimed. “Why else would he go to so much trouble to hide it?”

“It's certainly suspicious,” Harry agreed, “although if it is a Horcrux, I doubt that he knows. As it's the only real lead we have, it's the obvious place to start. Remus, Tonks and Ron's parents are already turning the house upside down looking for it, but Dumbledore thinks I might be more effective given the link I have to Voldemort. If it does contain a piece of his soul, he seems to think I might be able to connect with it somehow. Yeah, I know, it's a long shot,” he admitted, seeing Hermione's sceptical look. “But, either way, I'll be an extra pair of hands in the search.” 

“So, you won't be in school for the rest of term while you're looking for these Horcruxes?” Ron looked confused. 

“Of course I will,” Harry replied, “weren't you listening? Everything has to carry on as normal. Most of Slytherin House are related to Death Eaters in some way; we can't risk doing anything that would draw attention to us. If that happens, it may push Voldemort into acting sooner. At the moment he's just content to play his mind games. He knows I'm not going anywhere because, for now at least, Hogwarts is the safest place for me.” 

There was a short pause. “And in the meantime more innocent people die.” 

“Ron!” Hermione gasped, shocked by the stark brutality of his words. She glanced worriedly at Harry.

“Well, it's the truth.” 

“Do you think I don't know that?!” Harry responded angrily. “I'm not blind to what's going on! But what choice do I have? I'm the only one who can defeat him, whatever the stupid prophecy says, and that can't happen until all of his Horcruxes are destroyed.” 

“And what about my mum and dad? What choice did they have when their home was burned out from underneath them? If it wasn't for–” Ron broke off suddenly and exhaled in frustration.

Harry scrambled to his knees. ”If it wasnt for what? If it wasn't for me? Come on, Ron, say it. If it wasnt for me, it wouldn't have happened?”

”That's not what he meant, is it, Ron?”

Ron looked up at Hermione from beneath his long red fringe and shrugged.

”Oh, I know what he meant. In case you hadn't realised, Ron, nobody's forcing your parents to stick around. They could quite easily take you all into hiding, and _no one_ would question why because we all understand the risks they are taking. _I_ understand. But they _chose_ to be a part of all this, to be a part of the Order. _They_ chose, of their own free will!”

Ron turned his head away, refusing to meet Harry's gaze.

“Believe me,” Harry continued, his eyes flashing furiously, “if there was any other way I would gladly take it. Hell, I would happily walk to my own death right now if I thought it would make a difference! But it won't, and there's not a bloody thing I can do about it!” 

Hermione placed a hand on Harry's arm. He turned his glare on her and she shook her head. “Now isn't the time to be falling out with each other,” she said softly. She turned to Ron. “We both know how difficult this is for you. You've had to grow up hearing about Voldemort, living with the after-effects of the first war and what happened to your uncles. But none of this is Harry's fault; he's as much a victim as you are.” 

Ron concentrated on pulling at a loose thread in the sleeve of his jumper, deliberately avoiding her gaze. 

“Ron...” she persisted. 

“Okay, okay,” he mumbled eventually, staring off into the distance. “I'm sorry.” 

“Harry?” 

“Forget it,” Harry snapped, falling back onto the grass and covering his face with his arms.

Hermione sighed in quiet discontent, watching the rapid rise and fall of his chest and the tapping of his fingers on his shoulder as he battled to reign in his temper. For a while no one spoke, each of them alone in their thoughts. 

“There's something you're not telling us,” Hermione said suddenly, her eyes narrowed at Harry. “Something about all this doesn't quite add up.”

The tapping stopped. She was right, and Harry could tell that she knew it. He should have known he couldn't hide anything from her, she was more perceptive than a Sneakoscope. He raised an arm and looked up into her brown eyes, wondering how he could possibly tell her the truth. 

That in order to defeat Voldemort, he might very well have to die first. Not instead of, as the prophecy had implied. 

Hearing Dumbledore admit that to him last night had shocked him more than anything ever had or probably ever would; how would she and Ron react to it? He shook his head. He couldn't do it. The emotions it had unleashed within him were still so incredibly raw and painful; he was barely managing to hold himself together. He couldn't stand to put his friends through that too. “No, Hermione,” he insisted. “There's nothing else.” He felt awful for lying to her but he couldn't face the alternative. Not yet. 

Hermione regarded him, suspicion and doubt marring her features, but to Harry's relief she didn't pursue the issue. “How will you fit it all in?” she asked instead. 

“Well,” Harry explained, grateful for the change of subject, “the extra lessons will have to be done in my spare time, under the pretence of more remedial potions lessons from last year.” 

“And searching for the Horcruxes?” 

Harry grinned and reached inside the neck of his jumper to pull out a round golden object on a long chain. “Remember this?” It was McGonagall's Time Turner, the one Hermione had used during their third year.

“Oh...” 

“So, I can be everywhere at once and no one will be any the wiser.” 

Hermione picked at a blade of grass. A couple of first years ran past, chasing one of the wriggling carrots she had seen Hagrid carrying before. Hagrid wasn't far behind, huffing and puffing. He raised a hand in her direction and Hermione waved back. All around them life was carrying on as normal. A thought suddenly occurred to her. “What about last night? It's all over the school how you just vanished and didn't resurface until this morning. Won't that attract suspicion?” 

“That couldn't be helped. Everything happened so fast from the moment Snape told Dumbledore what had happened down in Kent.” Harry shrugged. “Snape's handling it. He's going to let slip to the Slytherins that I had to go to St Mungo's to have a miscast Impediment Jinx lifted.” 

“Will they believe it?” Hermione asked doubtfully. It didn't sound all that plausible to her, especially as it was something which could easily have been handled by Madam Pomfrey. 

“Coming from Snape they should...”

* * *

Harry trudged along several yards behind Ron and Hermione as they returned to the castle after lunch. He had debated with himself long and hard over whether to tell them everything that Dumbledore had told him the previous night, but it was only when Hermione had actually broached the subject of what he wasn't saying that he knew he couldn't. Part of him wanted – _needed_ – to share the burden with his friends, but his own inability to voice the cold hard facts had stopped him; the lack of an inner strength needed to deal with their emotions on top of his own prompting him to withhold it from them as Dumbledore had with him. But here, in the confines of his memory, it played out over and over again, taunting him. There was no escaping the cruel irony of the situation he now found himself in.

_Dumbledore's face suddenly grew serious, the lines and wrinkles etched into his skin furrowing deeply as he studied Harry._

_Harry instantly tensed. He had seen that look once before, three months ago. The night of Sirius's death. He had been sitting in this very office, and Dumbledore had been wearing that very expression as Harry had asked him, '...does that mean that... that one of us has got to kill the other one... in the end?'_

_There was a deeply uncomfortable silence which no one seemed willing to break. Harry's thoughts returned to the question he had asked several moments previously, to which he had still received no answer. “What relevance is all this to me not being able to kill Voldemort alone?”_

_“Professor Dumbledore is just about to explain that, aren't you?” Scrimgeour's patience had finally run out._

_Dumbledore smiled sedately at him. “Indeed, Minister.” He addressed Harry again. “At the end of last term, I showed you my memory of the prophecy Sybill Trelawney made. However, there was a portion of it that I didn't show you. You would have seen it when the time was right; unfortunately, that time has arrived sooner than we anticipated.” He nodded to Snape, who took the Pensieve from its cabinet and placed it on Dumbledore's desk. Dumbledore peered at Harry. “This is the portion of the prophecy that I withheld.” He tapped his wand to his temple, withdrawing the silky threads of his memory, and then stirred it into the water._

_Harry rose from his seat and approached the Pensieve slowly. At a nod from Dumbledore, he leaned over and looked in. There was the revolving shape of Sybill Trelawney, draped in shawls as before, eyes bulging behind her thick glasses. Her voice was hoarse when she spoke._

_“To defeat this most challenging of foes, he must utilise the powers of an equal, one tainted with the blood of his black magic ancestry. A bearer of the mark of the Dark Lord himself...”_

_“What's that supposed to mean?” Harry frowned, raising his head._

_“One thing at a time.” Dumbledore indicated for Harry to sit back down. “If we are correct with our assumption that Voldemort has Horcruxes related to each of the founders, the next thing we need to establish is what they might be. We have, as yet, identified nothing which can be linked to Rowena Ravenclaw, and have only a vague reference to a cup which once belonged to Helga Hufflepuff. Salazar Slytherin, on the other hand, was known to have worn a locket heirloom around his neck; the same locket, not by coincidence I'm sure, which ended up in the possession of one Hepzibah Smith, a descendant of Helga Hufflepuff, who also owned the cup. Both items went missing at the time of her death.”_

_Another long silence followed. “What about Gryffindor?” Harry prompted eventually, his patience diminishing as rapidly as the Minister's._

_Dumbledore's eyes met Snape's momentarily before he turned his back on the room and wandered over to the window which overlooked the Quidditch pitch. Harry watched him helplessly, desperate to know all the facts before the man closed up on him yet again, as was seeming likely._

_“Gryffindor's,” sneered a voice from behind him, “we believe to have been created... accidentally.”_

_Harry turned in his seat to find Snape's penetrating black eyes fixed on him. “What do you mean?”_

_“No, Severus, let it be me. I must be the one to tell him. It is the least I can do.”_

_“Then do it, Headmaster,” came Snape's harsh reply. “We have no time to waste on such sentimental foolishness.”_

_“Professor Snape makes a valid point,” Scrimgeour agreed. “If we are to act now, the boy needs to know everything. We cannot be left in the situation where he finds out at the last possible moment and is not prepared. I know it sounds callous, but the time for protecting him is over.”_

_Harry watched and listened as Snape and Scrimgeour proceeded to discuss him at length, growing more and more agitated as they talked about him instead of to him. Eventually he decided he'd had enough and launched himself to his feet. “Will you ALL stop talking as if I'm not here!”_

_Silence immediately fell in the room. Phineas Nigellus awoke with a start mid-snore and peered around with bleary eyes._

_“I don't care who does it, but will somebody PLEASE tell me what's going on. I just want to know!”_

_Dumbledore released his grip on the window sill and turned to face Harry._

_“Please, Professor,” Harry implored him. “The Minister is right. The time for protecting me is over. I want to know everything, and I want to know it now.” To have finally had the courage to say those words, to have them out in the open, felt like a weight being lifted from Harry's shoulders. He held his breath._

_Dumbledore nodded slowly at him. “Yes, Harry. Forgive me, you are quite right.” He waited for Harry to return to his chair, casting a worried glance at Snape and Scrimgeour whilst the boy's back was turned to him._

_Harry's stomach fluttered uneasily as he sat back down. He wiped his clammy palms on his trousers and tried to steady his breathing. Now that the fight to get the truth was finally over, he wanted nothing more than to bolt from the room without ever hearing it. Dumbledore's erratic behaviour, more than anything, was making him nervous._

_“To fully understand what I will tell you, you need to know how a Horcrux is created,” Dumbledore began without preamble. “There is only one thing in the world that has the power to rip apart a soul and that is the act of killing another. Each time Voldemort created a Horcrux, it was preceded by a murder. This ring, for example, was created following the death of Tom Riddle senior, Voldemort's own father.” He gestured at the diary, which had fallen to the floor when Harry stood. Harry looked down at it. “You can probably work out for yourself whose death brought about the creation of that particular Horcrux.”_

_Harry nodded. The diary had shown it to him itself four years ago, although he had been unaware of the significance at the time. “Moaning Myrtle...”_

_Dumbledore sighed. “Harry, this next bit will be as difficult for you to hear as it will be for me to say. All I ask is that you allow me to finish.” He didn't wait for Harry's response; now that he had started he seemed unable to stop until all was said and done. “I want to take you back to the night of the thirty-first of October, fifteen years ago.”_

_The night his parents had died. Why was Dumbledore doing this, dragging up all these painful memories yet again? “Professor, is this necessary?” Harry interrupted, swallowing the lump that had formed in his throat._

_“Yes, Harry, I'm afraid it is.” Dumbledore rounded on him suddenly, robes billowing around his ankles. “You wanted to know the truth and you have that right. Moreover, you have the need to know. If I am being insensitive then I am deeply sorry, but there is no other way.”_

_Harry couldn't recall ever seeing Dumbledore look so tense and uneasy. He stared up at him, his mouth suddenly dry._

_“Voldemort's intention that night was to murder you, and with your death create his sixth and final Horcrux.” Dumbledore loomed over Harry, his hands resting on the arms of the chair, blue eyes piercing into Harry's. “But you were protected by the sacrifice your mother made, and his magic couldn't touch you. Instead, in committing such acts of evil against James and Lily, he rendered his soul so unstable that when the Killing Curse rebounded from you to him, his soul fragmented and he accidentally created his last Horcrux.”_

_Harry waited for more, but nothing more came. Dumbledore's hands moved from the arms of the chair to Harry's shoulders, gripping him tightly. That single, solitary movement said it all; it was like a blow to the stomach for Harry. His eyes widened in something midway between fear and horror as the final piece of the puzzle fell into place. For the first time, Harry could see everything as clearly as Dumbledore always had, and the decisions the headmaster had taken over the years at last began to make sense. With a shaking hand Harry reached up to touch the scar on his forehead and as his fingers made contact there was a twisting stab of pain. But for once this pain wasn't from the scar that had troubled him almost every day for the past six years. This pain ran much deeper than that. It clutched at his heart as the realisation sank into him, the sheer agony forcing him to collapse back into his chair as his life, quite literally, fell to pieces around him_.

And there it was; the reason he could not kill Voldemort alone. Because _he_ was the final Horcrux. Short of a miracle, which Scrimgeour insisted they were searching for, _he_ would need to die before Voldemort could be killed. Harry squeezed his eyes shut, forcing the memory out of his mind. Instead, he recalled Dumbledore's earlier words from the previous night regarding Tom Riddle and Hogwarts. _'This was the first place he knew where he truly felt he belonged. Somewhere that he could call a home of sorts.'_ Harry shuddered at the thought that he and Voldemort had both found the same sanctuary within the castle's walls, had both looked upon it as the home they had never had. It was yet another thing they shared. Both of them half-bloods. Both of them forced to grow up without their parents, never knowing what it was like to be loved. It sickened him to know that he had so much in common with someone so twisted and evil. And now to know that he was, in part, keeping Voldemort alive...

“Harry!”

Hermione and Ron were waiting for him in the open doorway to the entrance hall. With a tremendous effort, Harry pushed his thoughts to one side for the time being; it wasn't as if he could do anything about the situation anyway, and dwelling on it wouldn't help. He broke into a jog to catch up and together they made their way inside, pushing through the crowd spilling out of the Great Hall. As they approached the stairs, Crabbe and Goyle stepped out in front of them, blocking their way. Hermione looked around. “Okay, so we've got the two parasites, where's the ferret they cling to?”

Right on cue, Draco Malfoy spoke up from behind them. “H-H-Hey, P-P-P-Potter. Heard y-y-y-you had a little a-a-a-accident y-y-y-yesterday.” Snape had obviously done his job. People that were close enough to overhear sniggered as they passed by.

“Oh, here he is.” Hermione turned to face Draco. He, however, was looking at Ron.

“You really are a disgrace to pureblood wizards, Weasel. You can't even cast a simple Impediment Jinx!”

Ron's jaw dropped indignantly. Hermione grabbed him before he could put his foot in it and shoved him and Harry through Crabbe and Goyle, who obligingly stepped aside. “He was messing around!” she hissed at Draco, trying to cover up any slip. “An accent on the wrong syllable, that was all. Anyone could have done it.” She turned to follow Ron and Harry but Crabbe and Goyle had blocked the way again. She glared at them. They glared back. Then she froze; Draco was right behind her. 

His hands grabbed her wrists, holding them firmly behind her back. His lips brushed her ear lightly as he leaned forward and whispered, “I know what you're up to, Granger.”

Hermione's heart gave a panicked flutter. Surely he couldn't mean..?

“That little display of _affection_ earlier,” he continued. “Not very wise of you. Let me give you some advice. Never play the master at his own game.”

She breathed a silent sigh of relief. For a sickening moment she thought he must have been listening in on their conversation down by the lake. Harry had gone a strange shade of grey, apparently thinking the same. She shook her head at him when he stepped forward to intervene, making it clear she could handle it. Yet again, she and Draco were the centre of attention. She tilted her chin to the right in order to look at him. Their lips were little more than an inch apart. “Don't fool yourself, Malfoy.” Her voice remained low and steady, despite his grip on her wrists tightening painfully. “The only thing you're master of are those two dimwits.” Her eyes slipped towards Crabbe and Goyle, who didn't even seem aware that she had insulted them. “Not something to boast about in my opinion.”

Draco scowled. “If you think–”

“Mr Malfoy!” Professor McGonagall's sharp voice carried over the murmurs of the gathering students as they stopped to watch. “A word...”

He didn't let go immediately. “You'll get yours, Mudblood,” he warned her. “Just when you least expect it...” Then he released her, pushing her away from him as he did. Harry caught her as she stumbled over Crabbe's outstretched foot.

Ron pointed a finger at Draco. “You leave her alone, you– you–” He broke off abruptly, appearing to reconsider what he was about to say. “Just leave her alone,” he finished with a half-hearted glare. By his friend's usual standards, even Harry had to admit it was a somewhat feeble threat.

Draco laughed, apparently in agreement. “Is that the best you can do, Weasel? You disappoint me.”

McGonagall was approaching fast. “Come on, let's get to class,” Harry said, pulling Ron away.

“Wait there, Miss Granger!” McGonagall called, as Hermione turned to leave with them. She raised her voice, pointing out that anyone still there and not on the way to class risked losing their respective house ten points each. Everyone began to file away, talking in low voices and looking speculatively at Hermione and Draco. “That goes for you too, Messrs Crabbe and Goyle. I'm sure Mr Malfoy will be quite alright without you for a moment.”

Crabbe and Goyle reluctantly followed Harry and Ron up the marble staircase and out of sight.

“Well... Miss Granger, Mr Malfoy...” McGonagall said, coming to a halt before them. “I have heard quite a lot about the two of you over the last few days.”

Draco lounged against the stone banister. Hermione pointedly looked in the opposite direction. Neither said a word.

McGonagall perused them for a moment. When it was clear she wasn't going to get a response, she pursed her lips. “I must say that I am very glad to see you getting along so excellently. It will be to your advantage.”

Hermione frowned at her. “In what way, Professor?”

“Because, Miss Granger, you and Mr Malfoy have been chosen to represent your houses on the organising committee for the Winter's Ball.”

* * *

Friday afternoon found Harry and his classmates gathered in a cold, draughty classroom in a remote part of Hogwarts they had not previously been aware existed. The reason for this was the one thing Harry had been looking forward to most this term alongside his return to the Quidditch team; the beginning of their Apparition training. For this purpose, the entire wing of the castle which housed this classroom had been permanently sealed off from the rest of the building to enable the anti-Apparition shields to be lifted for the duration of each lesson.

Professor McGonagall stood before them, a smile on her face. Beside her stood what could only be described as the most peculiar looking man Harry had ever seen. He was small, with wispy hair, and had an oddly diaphanous quality to his appearance. In fact, the longer Harry looked at him, the more he became convinced that he could see right through him to the wall of the classroom on the other side. It was extremely disconcerting.

“Good afternoon, sixth years,” McGonagall began, “and welcome to your first Apparition lesson. I should begin by explaining my presence. The techniques involved in learning to Apparate successfully are, you may be surprised to learn, ones that you are already familiar with. Apparition involves remembering three important things: Destination, Determination, and Deliberation. The basic principles of which are shared, in part, with the act of transfiguring. Therefore, as your Transfiguration professor, I shall be assisting in these lessons.” She turned to the translucent man on her right. “This is Wilkie Twycross, a Ministry-licensed Apparition trainer, who will be overseeing the tuition of those among you who are over seventeen and therefore legally allowed to Apparate.”

Wilkie Twycross nodded politely at the assembled students.

“For those of you who are underage,” McGonagall continued, “which is currently all but one of you, your tuition shall be with me.” She gestured to her left, directing everyone's attention to the wall at the far end of the long, narrow room. Etched at random positions into the otherwise plain stone wall were numerous circles of varying size and colour. “These are the target marks for the practical parts of your training. Use of these will aid in the focus and precision needed to Apparate to a destination safely. There are many ways in which to do this; for now we will concentrate solely on being able to hit one. Mr Potter, perhaps you would like to demonstrate for us?”

“Me?” Harry asked, somewhat startled at the request.

“Yes, you,” McGonagall replied impatiently. “Unless we have acquired another Mr Potter within the last few minutes that I was not aware of?”

“Let's hope not, one's bad enough,” Theodore Nott commented to his fellow Slytherins.

“Perhaps you would like to refrain from sharing your opinions in future,” McGonagall remarked loudly over the resulting sniggers, “otherwise there shall be need for another Mr Nott to replace the one I will personally remove from this lesson.” The sniggers grew as pupils from the other houses joined in. Nott glared at McGonagall but knew better than to answer back the sharp-tongued professor. McGonagall herself pointed to a white chalk line on the centre of the floor as if the interruption had never happened. “Position yourself behind that line and choose a mark to aim for, Potter,” she instructed.

Wand in hand, Harry approached the line, his eyes scanning the target marks as he debated which one he should pick. The smaller ones were incredibly hard to see at such a distance and he knew he stood a good chance of missing one of those. If he chose a larger one, however, he would be making it far too easy for himself, and the Slytherins would be on his back for the rest of the lesson.

“We would all be grateful for a decision sometime today, Potter,” McGonagall prompted at length.

“Uh, the black one,” Harry answered, settling on one of the more average-sized targets.

“Very well,” McGonagall replied. “The incantation for this spell, which you should all learn, is _Verus Intentio_. Now, I want you to point your wand at your chosen target, visualise the spell hitting it, and then cast it with as much determination as possible.”

Harry nodded. “Okay.”

“I would say in your own time, Potter,” McGonagall added dryly, “but I fear we may still be here tomorrow morning if I did.”

With everyone watching, Harry suddenly felt very self-conscious. He turned his back to them, his eyes focusing on the black target mark which somehow seemed smaller than it had a moment ago. Frowning slightly in concentration, he slowly raised his wand, aiming it directly at the centre of the circle. “ _Verus Intentio_ ,” he muttered, and a flash of blue light exploded from the end of his wand with so much force that it momentarily knocked him off balance. He hardly noticed, however, as his attention was very much on the far wall. He stared in astonishment as the target marks suddenly shimmered the moment the spell was cast and the black circle vanished, reappearing in a different location further to the right. Harry's spell hit the wall where the mark had previously been with a puff of chalky dust.

“Not enough focus on your destination, Mr Potter, although your aim was faultless.”

Harry turned to see Wilkie Twycross observing him with his grey eyes. “Er... thanks,” he replied awkwardly. There was something about the man's gaze which made him feel decidedly uncomfortable.

“I wouldn't thank me just yet. Had that happened during an Apparition, there's no telling where you would be right now.”

Harry was spared the need to reply by Hermione. “Professor, may I try?” she asked.

“Of course.” McGonagall waved her forward and Hermione took her place behind the white line. “As you will have seen from Mr Potter's attempt,” the professor said to the class in general, “the targets not only change location, but also size. This is to enable us to assess your skill at aim and precision, as well as your ability to focus on a destination. If you visualise your spell hitting the target strongly and clearly enough, it will not matter where it moves to or how far.” She glanced at Hermione.

“I'll take the white target,” Hermione announced after a quick examination of the wall. Harry watched as she raised her vine wood wand and took a few seconds to line it up with her target. Then, with her head held high, she spoke the words of the spell in a clear, confident voice. The blue light glowed at the end of her wand for a moment before it was released, arcing smoothly down the length of the room. As before, the targets shimmered and shifted, the white target moving quite a distance to the left and growing slightly in size. If there was any change in the trajectory of Hermione's spell it was far too subtle to be seen; however, it made contact with the wall at the target's new location but, to Hermione's obvious disappointment, just far enough off-centre to clip the outer edge of the neighbouring purple target.

“A valiant effort,” Wilkie Twycross observed as Hermione returned to Harry's side. “In contrast to Mr Potter's attempt, your focus on your destination was impeccable.” Those grey eyes slid sideways to Harry in an almost mocking gesture, and Harry decided there and then that he did not like this man.

“Is there anybody else who would like to try?” McGonagall asked. Not to be outdone by his friends, Ron put up a hand. “Come along then, take your position.” McGonagall eyed him warily as he passed her to make his way to the chalk line. “Which target will you take?”

“Er... the yellow one,” he replied, fidgeting with the sleeve of his jumper. Harry's eyes met Hermione's and he could see his own doubt reflected in hers. Something told him this wasn't going to go well. Ron's wand shook slightly as he held it up, his fingers tightening around it to bring it under control. Without giving himself enough time to aim, he blurted out the incantation and a decidedly more purple than blue flash erupted from his wand. McGonagall's hands immediately flew to her face, and her worried expression prompted several students to scuttle towards the rear wall. Hermione gripped Harry's arm as they watched Ron's spell weave erratically around the room, rebounding off floor and walls, zipping over the students' heads and forcing Wilkie Twycross to duck out of its path, until eventually it sent a lit torch careening from its bracket on the wall, the spell itself being consumed by the flames and causing a large flare of fire that was swiftly doused with a gush of water from McGonagall's wand.

Wilkie Twycross cleared his throat as he straightened and regained his composure. “Yes, thank you, Mr– er...”

“Weasley,” McGonagall provided, tucking her wand away with a furious look in Ron's direction.

“Ah, yes. I should have known from the... er... hair. I remember your brothers' first lesson well. Half the class ended up in the hospital wing as a result of the hole Fred Weasley put in the ceiling. Tell me, when do you turn seventeen?

“Um, March,” Ron mumbled, rejoining Harry and Hermione with a rather sheepish expression on his face.

“Yes...” Wilkie Twycross replied thoughtfully. “That should hopefully give us enough time to bring your aim under control.”

“I wouldn't worry too much,” Draco spoke up. “The worst that can happen is that he splinches part of his face off when he tries to Apparate. It can only be an improvement.”

The old Ron would have snapped back at Draco for that comment, but instead he simply blushed and looked awkwardly at the floor. This change in his personality was really beginning to trouble Harry. Ron barely spoke to anyone besides himself and Hermione anymore, Lavender being the exception. Even then, he was often distant and closed off. His behaviour towards Draco was especially telling. Usually, he would jump at every opportunity to insult the Slytherin, or to stick up for his friends against him. It hadn't gone unnoticed with Harry that during the incident with Cho's note earlier that week, Ron had stayed right out of it. It was unnerving to see such a difference in his best friend, particularly at a time when they needed to stick together more than ever.

McGonagall clapped her hands together to silence the chatter that had sprang up following Ron's mishap. “I think it would be best to move on, before Mr Weasley sees fit to destroy the rest of the classroom,” she advised Wilkie Twycross, who immediately acquiesced.

“Whatever you wish, Professor McGonagall, this is your lesson.”

Draco, however, chose that moment to step forward, pushing his way roughly between Harry and Ron. “I would like to try,” he informed McGonagall coolly, indicating the target marks on the wall. “Unless, of course, only Gryffindors are being favoured with practicals in this lesson?”

Professor McGonagall fixed him with a piercing stare. “I can assure you, _Mr_ Malfoy, that each and every student in this class will receive both practical _and_ theoretical tuition–” she turned away from him momentarily to address the rest of the group, “–and provided they are of age, will be allowed to attempt close-range Apparition.” Her eyes returned to Draco. “That is, after all, what this lesson is for. 

“However,” she continued, her voice rising, “I shall take this opportunity to warn you all that anyone caught attempting to Apparate underage will be suitably punished. If you are not yet seventeen, your practicals will consist solely of the focus training you have just seen... demonstrated.” She glanced briefly at Ron, then eyed Draco with an expectant gaze and gestured to the far wall. “When you are ready.” 

Draco walked to the line, twirling his wand absently in his fingers. “Green target,” he declared without hesitation. Harry rolled his eyes at the Slytherin's predictability but nonetheless watched with interest as Draco glanced up from lowered lashes for barely a second to locate his mark before his eyes flicked back to his wand. He lifted it in one swift fluid motion and muttered _'Verus Intentio'_. The spell shot from his wand with hardly a trace of the flash Harry's had produced and flew with unwavering precision the entire length of the room, smacking into its intended mark, which had moved diagonally to the left, dead on centre in a fizzle of sparks. Draco slowly lowered his wand. Harry glanced at Wilkie Twycross in time to catch the look that passed between him and McGonagall. There was no mistaking their surprise.

“That's how it's done, Weasel,” Draco said in a low voice, smirking at Harry as he elbowed his way between him and Ron once again.

Harry stuck his own elbow in Draco's ribs in retaliation but privately he couldn't help marvelling at the grace and accuracy with which the older boy had performed the spell. _Not at all unlike his flying skills_ , Harry thought. He had always been a little envious at the ease with which his fellow Seeker flew, managing to attain high speeds but always with a smoothness and elegance that Harry wished he could master. In comparison, he flew with little control and certainly nothing which could even remotely be described as graceful. He relied almost completely on his nerveless ability and sheer breakneck speed, both of which had served him well so far. Even Draco found it difficult to compete with him, yet Harry always felt awkward and ungainly when they were racing side by side, chasing down the snitch. Draco turned flying into an art form, making it look so effortless. As if he was one with his broom. Whereas Harry always felt he was fighting a constant battle with his.

Wilkie Twycross was almost beside himself with excitement. “Well done, my boy, well done. Perfectly executed, wouldn't you agree, Professor?”

McGonagall nodded rather frostily and promptly moved on to the next subject before the matter could be discussed further.

* * *

Hermione was perched on the edge of a desk in the Transfiguration classroom the following evening, swinging her legs impatiently. She was the only one present at the first meeting of the organising committee; she had been waiting for the others to arrive for well over twenty minutes. It wouldn't surprise her if she ended up organising the whole damned thing on her own, especially considering who two of her co-members were. She sighed in exasperation at the thought. If she was honest with herself, this was the last thing she wanted to be doing. Normally, she would have thrown herself into it wholeheartedly. But having to spend every weekend for the next ten weeks shut in a room with two people she didn't really know, and one that she wished she didn't know at all, didn't appeal to her in the slightest. Moreover, the ball just wasn't that important to her since learning Harry's news. She knew it made sense, that it would act as a perfect smokescreen. She just didn't see why she had to be so involved, not when it took her away from Harry at a time when he needed her support.

She looked up as the door opened. A tall, willowy girl with pale blue eyes and a halo of blonde curls framing her heart shaped face entered, followed by a slightly taller boy with honey coloured eyes and a shock of black hair atop his head. He smiled warmly at Hermione, who managed a weak smile in return. 

Celestine Balfour and Gavin Keppel, both seventh years, and the representatives of Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff respectively. 

Celestine looked down at Hermione with a disdainful expression. “I suppose we'll have to do what we can between us, Gavin,” she said with a theatrical sigh. “Why they couldn't have chosen Emilia Grey for Gryffindor's committee member instead of some little girl from the sixth year is beyond me.”

Gavin took her by the arm and steered her firmly towards a nearby desk. He shot an apologetic smile at Hermione as Celestine leaned against the desk and folded her arms petulantly.

Emilia Grey was a seventh year Gryffindor prefect who Hermione knew well. It didn't surprise her in the slightest to find out that she and Celestine were friends; Emilia often behaved with as great a lack of maturity during their prefect meetings as Celestine was displaying now.

Gavin looked around. “Where's Malfoy?” he asked. From the look on his face, he thought as little for the Slytherin representative as Celestine did for Gryffindor's. 

As if in answer the door swung open, rebounding with a bang off the wall. Draco's face was like thunder. He slammed the door shut behind him and threw his book bag down on the nearest desk. 

“Throwing a tantrum _already_ , Malfoy?” Hermione piped up.

“If you don't want to be here, Malfoy, speak to Dumbledore. I'm sure we can manage without Slytherin's input.” 

Draco glared at Gavin. “Oh believe me, Keppel, don't think I haven't tried.” He turned his glower on Hermione, as if it was all her fault he was here. “For some inexplicable reason, Snape actually _wants_ me to take part in this ridiculous exercise.”

Hermione raised her eyebrows in surprise.

“So...” Draco leaned in close to her as he took a seat at the neighbouring desk. “You're just going to have to put up with me...” That last sentence was intended just for her, and he made sure she knew it. 

Gavin sat on the edge of McGonagall's desk. “Okay, let's get started. I guess the first thing we should do is decide who's going to take notes–” 

“Shouldn't we choose a chairperson?” Celestine butted in.

“What for?” Gavin chuckled. “Cel, we're organising a school dance. I don't think we need to be quite so formal.” 

Celestine flushed and scowled at Gavin, who promptly straightened his face. “Well... how about if we each take turns?” he suggested, attempting to pacify her. Celestine scowled even deeper. Obviously, she'd had her sights set on the job solely for herself. 

As Draco wasn't paying any attention at all to what was going on, Hermione spoke up. “I think it's a good idea. That way it's fair. And if you like, I'll take notes today.” She ignored the glare she received from Celestine. 

Gavin smiled at her appreciatively. “Is that agreed, Cel? Malf– er... Draco?” 

Celestine nodded, her lips pressed tightly together. 

“Do I look like I care either way?” Draco drawled. “And you were right first time, Keppel. It's Malfoy to you.” 

Gavin let Draco's comment wash over him. “Okay, that's decided then. Oh, and in case I forget, Professor McGonagall has agreed to let us continue using her classroom. So every Saturday and Sunday evening we'll meet here, same time as tonight.” When no one objected, he pulled a piece of paper from his pocket. “Right, well first of all we need to discuss this. On the way down here, we–” he nodded to Celestine “–were stopped by McGonagall. She gave us this note from Dumbledore.” He tapped the piece of paper. “I won't bother reading it out. Basically, he wants us, as the organising committee, to dance the opening and closing dances at the ball. And he's insisting both dances be a waltz. So we'd better start with this because... well, I don't know about the rest of you but I'm not exactly the world's best dancer. I'm going to need to practise as much as possible.” He ginned at Celestine, who reached over and squeezed his arm. 

“Don't worry, you'll be fine in my hands...” she said with a suggestive smile. He laughed. 

Hermione watched this brief exchange with growing horror. She hadn't realised Gavin and Celestine were a couple; of course they were going to want to partner each other. Which meant...

She glanced at Draco. He was leaning lazily on his desk, and if the sadistic grin on his face was anything to go by, he had just realised the same thing she had. “Well, Granger,” he declared in amusement, “maybe this might not be as dull as I thought...”

* * *

Hermione stomped down the corridor the following morning before breakfast, heading for McGonagall's office. There was _no way_ she was going to partner Draco Malfoy to the Winter's Ball. Okay, admittedly she didn't have a partner yet, but she would rather go with a Blast-Ended Skrewt in a dinner jacket than him! That wasn't the half of it though. There were all the committee meetings, not to mention the practise they would have to put in before then. All that time spent together, just the two of them. Her mind was made up; it wasn't going to happen.

McGonagall, however, didn't quite see it her way. She studied Hermione gravely. “I must admit, Miss Granger, you disappoint me. Whilst I understand your reluctance to want to work so closely with Mr Malfoy, especially given recent ... events ... the fact that I chose you to represent Gryffindor should be considered an honour. I feel that you will do this house of ours proud, but more than that you have excellent organisational skills, and given the fact that Professors Snape and Flitwick felt the need to choose Mr Malfoy and Miss Balfour, your contribution will be of much need.”

Hermione smiled at the head of Gryffindor house. “Thank you, Professor McGonagall. But–”

“No 'buts', Miss Granger. I am not prepared to replace you on the committee. That is my final word.” 

Hermione had been expecting this. She lowered her voice. “Professor, what about Harry? I really feel that as his friends, Ron and I should be spending as much of our free time helping–”

McGonagall stood from behind her desk so suddenly that Hermione physically jumped. “Miss Granger, must I remind you that walls have ears?” she interrupted in a harsh whisper. “Yes... we expected Mr Potter to confide in you and Mr Weasley. Your concern for him is understandable. However, you will be of more use to him if you continue on the committee.” 

“How?” Hermione asked. 

McGonagall blinked. “I had expected you to work it out for yourself. Very well... For a start, Miss Granger, you will be keeping potentially the most dangerous student at Hogwarts out of the way.” Her voice lowered further. “Do not forget who Draco Malfoy's father is...”

Hermione stared at her in undisguised shock. This was quite definitely one of the rare occasions where she was rendered speechless; occasions that seemed to be occurring more and more frequently of late. “B-but there are other students with parents working for Volde–” she stuttered, trying to get her head around the fact that she was being used in such a way. 

McGonagall waved her hand and Hermione found that although her mouth was moving, no sound came out. 

“You _must_ refrain from using that name!” McGonagall hissed furiously. “Nothing must draw his attention to us, _nothing_. We cannot even be certain that speaking of such matters under silencing spells is safe. Do you understand?” She released the spell following Hermione's nodded affirmation. 

Hermione cleared her throat to ensure that she could speak again. She lowered her voice. “Why Draco?”

“Despite his faults, Draco Malfoy is highly intelligent. If anyone is capable of discovering what we are doing, it will be him. And do not think that Lucius Malfoy is beyond exploiting that. He is, first and foremost, a Death Eater. He will not think twice about using his son in such a way.” 

Hermione swallowed the bile rising from her jittery stomach. She knew McGonagall was right. She also knew she had been deliberately chosen to help organise the Winter's Ball for this very reason, and so had Draco. But, she reasoned, if she could do _anything_ to help, she should. When put in comparison with what Harry was facing, having to endure Draco Malfoy for the next couple of months was considerably more bearable. 

Well, a little. 

She nodded reluctantly, her eyes fixed on the desk. “Okay, Professor, I'll continue on the committee. But I _refuse_ to accompany him to the ball.”

McGonagall smiled tightly. “As you wish. You may choose your own partner.” Her voice softened and she reached out, lifting Hermione's chin with wrinkled fingers until their eyes met. Her next words made Hermione shiver with apprehension. “What makes Draco Malfoy more dangerous still is that he will do anything within his power to please his father. We would prefer not to involve you in this, but very few people seem to garner his attention as you do. Tread carefully, Miss Granger, never think you know what is in his head because that will be when you are at your most vulnerable.”

Unable to find any suitable words, Hermione nodded again.

“Remember,” McGonagall finished rather ominously, “keep your friends close, and your enemies closer.”

* * *

Hermione was surprised that night to find Draco arriving at the Transfiguration classroom seconds before herself, and she was five minutes early. He waited for her as she approached. “Didn't expect to see you back, Granger.”

“Really? Why's that?” 

He leaned casually against the door as he held it open. “I thought you might have pulled off the committee since finding out you have to partner me.” 

“Funny, I was hoping you would do the same,” she countered, moving past him into the room. 

“I never run from a challenge,” he replied, his gaze sweeping over her back. 

“Not even when you've met your match?”

She heard him chuckle softly. “Especially when I've 'met my match', Granger.” 

Hermione turned to him. “Well just for the record, Malfoy, I have no intention of going to the ball with you. We may have to partner each other in a dance or two for show's sake, but that's it.” 

“Fine by me,” he replied with a shrug. “I've already got my date.”

“Let me guess,” she sneered. “Pansy Parkinson...” 

Draco smiled at her jibe. “And who are you going with, Granger?” Hermione's hesitation was all the answer he needed. He nodded satisfactorily. “I thought so. Never mind, you could always take pity on Potter if Cho Chang's still mooning over Diggory.” He sauntered past Hermione and dropped into McGonagall's chair. “I think I might take my turn at chairing the meeting today,” he declared, reclining back with his hands clasped behind his head. 

“Good to see you taking an interest,” Gavin said sarcastically, following Celestine into the room. Celestine brushed past Hermione with her nose in the air and not a word of hello. 

Gavin touched Hermione's elbow in greeting. Hermione smiled up at him but when she looked back at Draco her smile faded. He was watching her with an intensity in his eyes that she didn't like. She pivoted away from him and took a seat.

The meeting flew by and before long it was approaching eight o'clock. Between them they had managed to achieve quite a lot, not least of all reaching the decision that the Winter's Ball should be a costume ball. This had been a matter of some contention. It was Celestine's suggestion, and Draco had immediately backed it up. Hermione hadn't liked the idea at all. At a time like this, the last thing they needed was everyone running around in varying degrees of disguise. But when she had voiced her concerns they were met with little support. Draco had looked at her, his gaze steady and extremely unsettling, as she had broached the subject of a possible war starting before Christmas. Celestine had scoffed at the notion that Hogwarts might be in any danger from Death Eater attacks, at which point Draco's eyes had shifted from Hermione to the blonde Ravenclaw. Gavin, meanwhile, had not been keen on it either but Celestine had worked what little charm she possessed on him and he eventually caved in. Somewhat disappointed, Hermione had fought her corner hard and eventually it was agreed to consult McGonagall who, to Hermione's utmost surprise, gave her blessing. Draco had regarded Hermione with such a smug expression since then that she was forced to turn her back on him. Now that the meeting was over, she couldn't wait to get out of there.

Gavin stood, his arm around Celestine's slender shoulders. “Well, if we're all done for tonight–” he pulled her closer and nuzzled her hair, “–I think we should go and, uh, practise our moves...” He winked at Hermione as he led a giggling Celestine out of the classroom. 

Not wanting to be alone with Draco for a second longer than was necessary, Hermione hastily grabbed her things together and hurried to leave. Draco, however, was already at the door. He pushed it shut and turned to face her, leaning against it casually with his arms folded. 

“What are you doing?” she demanded. 

Draco smiled suggestively. “I think we should practise _our_ moves too.”

Hermione's eyes widened in surprise as he moved away from the door and strode purposefully towards her. “Malfoy...” she warned. She took a few steps herself – backwards – and bumped into a desk. What was he _doing?_ There was nothing to achieve by this, he had no audience this time. She edged around the desk, Draco following after her as she looked around for a way past him. 

“Malfoy,” she repeated. “I want to leave. _Now_.” 

He smirked in response. “I'm not stopping you.”

Her lunge for the other side of the desk and a clear run at the door, however, proved futile as Draco pre-empted her and moved swiftly to block her way. Realising there was no way she could compete with the reflex reactions of a Quidditch seeker, Hermione had no alternative but to retreat the entire length of the room, eventually backing into McGonagall's large desk and sending a pile of books tumbling to the floor. That was it; there was nowhere else to go. She dug inside her robes for her wand but Draco quickly cleared the remaining desk between them in one athletic leap, grabbing both her arms above the wrist before she could pull it free. Hermione's heart thudded so hard against her chest she feared it would burst right through.

“You do know–” he said with more than a faint trace of humour in his voice, “–that by moves, I meant these...” He slipped an arm around her back, his free hand taking hold of hers. Before she could resist he stepped back, pulling her with him, guiding her in a clumsy resemblance of a waltz which was hampered even more by all the usual classroom furniture. Hermione stumbled several times and trod on Draco's feet at least twice. It felt alien to her, the unfamiliar steps and especially the unfamiliar arms holding her. She fought to keep a distance between them, their bodies not coming into contact once, but this only served to make the dance more awkward and ungainly. After what felt like several minutes but which was, in reality, only a matter of seconds, she jerked away from him. 

He let her go. “If that's the best you can manage, Granger, we're going to be the laughing stock of the school at this stupid ball.” The disgust was evident in Draco's voice. 

“I'm surprised you're that bothered about something as trivial as a school dance,” she retorted, shoving past him. 

“What makes you think I am?” he countered to her retreating back. “But seeing as I have to go, and seeing as I have to dance in front of the whole school, I want to make sure it's done properly. I'm not going to have anyone show me up, least of all you. Which is why tomorrow, after lessons, we're going to meet up to rehearse.”

He didn't bother to ask if that was okay with her. “And what if I'm busy tomorrow night?” 

“The only thing you're going to be busy with is me, Granger. If we have to practise every night until the ball, we will. Got that?” 

Hermione stared at him, dumbfounded. Such audacity was something _only_ a Malfoy could wield. But then she heard McGonagall's voice. _'You will be keeping the most dangerous student at Hogwarts out of the way.'_ Well, at least someone would be happy with the amount of work they were going to be putting in. She had to admit that this was the perfect opportunity; it was almost as if he was playing into their hands. “Okay,” she muttered. 

Draco blinked. “What?” 

Hermione smiled inwardly at the look on his face. He had _not_ expected that. “I said okay,” she repeated. “Sure, fine, whatever you say. Can I go now?” She didn't wait for a reply, grabbing her things on her way out. 

Draco watched her silently. As she slipped out the door, he called her back. 

“What?” she demanded irritably.

“What exactly did you think I meant when I said we should 'practise our moves'?” he asked with a smirk.

“Go to hell, Malfoy.”

He chuckled as she slammed the door behind her.


	4. First Signs Of Trouble

  
Author's notes: Harry Potter's sixth year at Hogwarts is set to be his most difficult yet. With the wizarding world on the brink of war, just who can he put his trust in? And what role will Draco Malfoy play - the boy who haunts Harry's dreams alongside Voldemort?

There are four things you really need to know before reading.

1\. This is going to be LONG!  
2\. Each chapter so far is roughly between 10,000 and 16,000 words.  
3\. It has a plot.  
4\. Harry/Draco is only hinted at for the first few chapters. By chapter four those hints become more apparent - at least from Harry's pov. However, it will take quite a few more chapters before things start to develop. If you are expecting the boys to jump into bed together right away, you will be disappointed. I want this story to develop their relationship at a sensible pace while staying in character. Therefore, they have a LOT of issues to deal with!

Mainly canon up to, and including, Order of the Phoenix. Roughly follows certain events from Half-Blood Prince and Deathly Hallows. Ignores epilogue completely.

Deceptions is my take on year six, and will be followed by a year seven sequel, From Within.

Expect copious amounts of angst, lashings of humour, some violence, and a healthy amount of dark!Harry. Character deaths (but I can safely say not Harry or Draco because that is something I will never write!), Quidditch, and top!Draco (although top!Harry is demanding that he has his moment and I might just have to give in!). There's even a songfic in one of the chapters - not sure how that happened!  


* * *

_Disclaimer: Characters, locations and certain plot details of this chapter are owned by JK Rowling and her respective publishers. I do not own Harry Potter (unfortunately), and I am not making any money from this story._

 

**Chapter Four**

**First Signs Of Trouble**

“Minerva, what brings you to my office on this rather cheerful evening?”

“You may call it cheerful, Albus, but I most definitely do not.” Minerva McGonagall closed the door behind her. “Severus,” she said stiffly, acknowledging the presence of the other man in the room. Snape barely nodded at her in response. 

Dumbledore sighed at the sudden air of tension that had pervaded the room and returned his quill to its holder. “Is it safe to assume that this has something to do with the matter we discussed before the start of term?”

McGonagall approached the headmaster's desk, eyeing Snape with the same severe expression she reserved for her most troublesome students. “I don't like it one bit.”

Snape glanced sideways at her. “I believe you made that perfectly clear at the time,” he remarked, not bothering to hide his impatience.

“And I wish to make it clear once again,” she replied sharply. “Albus, it isn't right, surely you must see that? Our actions are no better than his; in fact, what we are doing is far worse.”

Snape twitched beside her, but said nothing. Dumbledore leaned forward on his elbows, lacing his fingers together and resting them thoughtfully against his lips as he considered his deputy headmistress. “What has made you draw that conclusion, Minerva, given the decision that we agreed upon? Yourself included, might I add.”

“You have known me for a very long time, Albus. I am always the first to admit when I am wrong, and this is one of those occasions. They are children still, and it is our duty to guide and care for them. Not to manipulate them in the way that we are doing. If we continue with this, we shall be lowering ourselves to his level–”

“This happens to be a war,” Snape cut in scathingly. “Lowering ourselves to the Dark Lord's level may very well protect us from an attack where we are weakest.“

“Something which has happened once already,” Dumbledore added. “Unfortunately, the murder of Harry's aunt was something we could do little about. This time, however, we are in a position to control the situation and should take that opportunity. Do you not agree, Minerva?”

“We are no more in control than he is,” McGonagall responded heatedly. “We are being forced into doing things we would not even entertain at any other time. And yes, Severus, I am fully aware that this is a war. That is not something I needed to be reminded of, thank you very much. But it is no excuse for us to throw away our morals and dance with the Devil. Miss Granger was in my office this morning and it is very obvious that she knows she is being manipulated, yet she is willing to go along with it for the sake of Potter. But she doesn't know the full extent of the situation she has entered into, and she should.”

Snape bestowed a look of contempt upon his colleague. “Naturally, it's only Miss Granger's predicament you are concerned with.”

“What do you expect?” McGonagall snapped, her voice rising as she turned to face him. “She is my student!”

“As is Draco Malfoy, which you appear to have conveniently forgotten.” Snape's black eyes bore into her. “Slytherin or not, he is a pupil at this school and should be afforded the same protection as everyone else, regardless of house loyalties.”

“This is _not_ about something as trivial as house loyalties, Severus!” McGonagall exploded fiercely. “How dare you even suggest such a thing. Draco Malfoy is in an entirely different situation to Hermione Granger.” 

“Need I remind you both,” Dumbledore interrupted wearily, “that Draco Malfoy's welfare is the reason why we are doing this in the first place. What he has been tasked with is something quite impossible, and it troubles me.”

“Indeed, Headmaster,” Snape acknowledged, brushing aside McGonagall's outburst. “What concerns me most is that not even I know the Dark Lord's motive in this instance.”

“Quite... Severus, forgive me, but I must ask you again. Are you confident that his trust in you remains intact?”

“Undoubtedly.”

“In which case that only concerns me more. As you are such an important influence in Draco's life, it can only suggest that you are being deliberately sequestered on this matter. The question is why?” Dumbledore rose from his chair and began to pace around his office, deep in thought. “Given what you have already told us of his plans, Severus, I can understand Voldemort's wish to drive a wedge between Harry and Miss Granger. Removing those closest to Harry in his support network would appeal to his perverse sense of humour, not to mention aid him in their own personal battle. And for Draco to be the cause of that wedge would be particularly devastating. 

“But Voldemort must know that Draco stands little chance of succeeding. Not only is Miss Granger intelligent enough to see through such a thing, her history with Draco is volatile to say the least. By contrast, her relationship with Harry is perhaps the strongest I have ever personally encountered.” He paused, frowning at the Pensieve cabinet in deliberation. “No... there is more to this than meets the eye. Either Voldemort is privy to something we are not, or it appears he is deliberately setting Draco up to fail. And I want to know why.”

McGonagall exchanged an uneasy glance with Snape. “Well, that doesn't make any sense. If he wishes to damage their friendship, Albus, why would he _want_ Malfoy to fail?”

“That, Minerva, is why I cannot help but feel that I am missing something.”

“Headmaster,” Snape said, drawing the man's attention, “the Malfoys have fallen considerably from the Dark Lord's grace following their ill-fated attempt to obtain the record of the prophecy. It might be that he has chosen to take their punishment out on Draco.”

Dumbledore regarded Snape thoughtfully. “You may very well be correct with that assumption, but I don't believe it to be quite that straightforward. One thing is certain, however; should he fail, there is little doubt in my mind that he will be made an example of. Severus is quite right, Minerva; Draco must be protected.”

“With respect, Albus, Draco Malfoy is far from an innocent in all this. I am not saying he deserves our protection any less, of course not–”

“That is _exactly_ what you are saying,” Snape interrupted venomously. 

“Severus, as you have already pointed out, this is a war. I believe our first priority should be with Potter, and as a result, Miss Granger. Not with the son of an active Death Eater. The risk that we are all placing her in by going ahead with this is indefensible.”

Snape's posture grew rigid. “Draco is putting himself in as much, if not more risk than your precious Miss Granger, but of course the foolish boy cannot see it and is therefore in no position to guard against it. It appears he's not the only foolish one.” He gave McGonagall a meaningful glare.

“I'm afraid, Minerva,” Dumbledore broke in, seeing her bristle at Snape's words, “that I'm entirely in agreement with Severus on this. I suspect Draco is the pawn in a game he cannot even hope to win without our help. With Miss Granger unwittingly collaborating with him, it might just buy him – and us – some time.”

“Even then, it may not be enough,” Snape remarked.

Dumbledore nodded at his Potions professor. “We are going to need to steer Draco into treading a very fine line between success and failure.” He glanced at McGonagall. “For which we will need your cooperation, Minerva.”

McGonagall pulled her shawl more tightly around her shoulders, her displeasure evident. “And how long do you foresee this continuing?”

“Until we know for certain what it is Voldemort has in mind for him.” Dumbledore's face softened. “I understand your concerns; indeed, I agree with you. It is a regrettable situation, but one we must look at subjectively. There is more going on with Draco Malfoy than I think any of us are even aware of and I, for one, am not prepared to give up on a boy who has done nothing wrong but be born into a corrupt family. Not whilst there is still a chance for him.”

“You know where I stand on this,” Snape reaffirmed immediately. “Draco is my godson, I intend to do all I can to help him.”

Dumbledore held his gaze for a moment before both men turned to McGonagall. “Miss Granger cannot be made aware of any of this. Our best hope of keeping them _both_ safe lies with each of them believing they are the one in control of the situation. If either of them loses that belief, then– Minerva, I know what you are about to say. Children they may be, but Voldemort does not discriminate on age and neither can we.”

There was an uncomfortable silence. “Minerva?” Dumbledore prompted eventually.

“Very well,” she replied testily. “Against my better judgement, I will go along with what we agreed. But one thing still bothers me. I warned Miss Granger this morning not to underestimate Malfoy, and I am not about to ignore my own advice. In my opinion, you are too quick to assume he will fail. What if he doesn't, Albus?”

“I don't think that is something we need concern ourselves with. Even if the unthinkable happened and Draco actually succeeded in befriending Miss Granger, it would have little bearing on her relationship with Harry. That is where Voldemort has underestimated _them_.

“Their friendship is much too strong.”

* * *

_“Hogwarts, dear? Got the lot here – another young man being fitted up just now, in fact.”_

_Harry peered into the back of the shop as the witch bustled around him. Stood on a footstool, with a second witch kneeling at his feet, pinning up his long black robes, was a boy of his own age. He had a pale, angular face with a pointed chin and white-blond hair, slicked smoothly back and trimmed neatly at the nape of his neck. He had never seen anyone with hair that colour before, other than those who had acquired it straight from a bottle. It was easily the most striking thing about him._

_That was, at least, until he glanced up and his eyes landed on Harry. Harry knew it was rude to stare, especially when the person you were staring at was looking at you, but he couldn't help it. The boy had a quality to his silver eyes that made them glitter even in the shop's dull light, like the sun reflecting off chips of ice. To call them simply grey would be doing them a disservice._

_It was only when Madam Malkin cut across between them and beckoned Harry to follow that he tore his own eyes away with a blush, embarrassed by his behaviour. She led him over to the boy, who was gazing down at the witch adjusting the length of his robes, two spots of pink colouring his cheeks. At Madam Malkin's insistence, Harry stepped up onto a footstool next to him and had an identical robe slipped over his head. Madam Malkin immediately set to work with her pins, leaving him standing in awkward silence, searching for something to say._

_Finally the boy glanced at him and said, “Hullo, Hogwarts too?”_

_“Yes,” was all a rather stupidly tongue-tied Harry could manage in reply. Fortunately, the boy saved him from having to make further conversation._

_“My father's next door buying my books,” he drawled, sounding decidedly bored as he studied Harry, “and mother's up the street looking at wands. Then I'm going to drag them off to look at racing brooms. I don't see why first-years can't have their own. I think I'll bully father into getting me one and I'll smuggle it in somehow.”_

_An unwelcome feeling of déjà vu settled around Harry at the manner in which the boy said this; it reminded him a little too much of the kind of thing Dudley would say, and he couldn't help being disappointed by it._

_“Have you got your own broom?”_

_“No,” he answered._

_“Play Quidditch at all?”_

__Quidditch? What on earth was that? _Harry looked up at the boy and caught the faintest glimmer of a challenge in his eyes. “No,” he said again, wondering why it was that he could give nothing more than one word answers._

_“I do – Father says it's a crime if I'm not picked to play for my house, and I must say, I agree.”_

_There it was again, that flash of arrogance. Harry sighed and turned his face away, concentrating on the top of Madam Malkin's head as she busied herself with the hem of his robe._

_“Know what house you'll be in yet?”_

_“No,” he mumbled, convinced the boy thought him as stupid as he felt._

_“Well, no one really knows until they get there, do they, but I know I'll be in Slytherin, all our family have been – imagine being in Hufflepuff, I think I'd leave, wouldn't you?”_

_Harry glanced at the boy again. He was still watching him, and as their eyes met the boy suddenly smiled a shy smile. Harry gazed back at him, unsure how to respond. “Mmm,” he replied eventually, wishing he could say something a bit more interesting..._

Harry rolled over fitfully in his sleep, disturbing his dream. It shimmered and fragmented, waiting for him to settle back down. When it began to coalesce he was no longer stood on a footstool in Madam Malkin's. Instead, he was sitting in a compartment of the Hogwarts Express, opposite an eleven-year-old Ron who was in full flow, explaining all about the intricacies of Quidditch and the games he had been to see with his brothers.

_The door suddenly slid open and Harry looked up, expecting to see Hermione or the boy with the missing toad again. But it was neither. Three boys had entered, and he instantly recognised the middle one. It was the pale-faced boy from Madam Malkin's, with the white-blond hair and the eyes that had made even simple conversation impossible. The same eyes that were now staring at him with undisguised interest._

_“Is it true?” the boy asked in the same haughty voice that Harry remembered from their first meeting. “They're saying all down the train that Harry Potter's in this compartment.” He didn't even acknowledge Ron's presence. “So it's you, is it?” he said, his eyes glittering as he stared at Harry._

_“Yes,” Harry replied, and the boy had done it again. One look and he was rendered incapable of anything other than yes or no. Annoyed with himself, he turned his attention to the boy's two companions, his eyes narrowing in displeasure at their very presence._

_“Oh, this is Crabbe and this is Goyle,” the boy said rather carelessly, noticing where he was looking. “And my name's Malfoy...”_

_Harry's eyes flickered back to the boy's silver ones._

_“...Draco Malfoy,” the boy finished, smiling that same shy smile he had given Harry in Madam Malkin's._

_But then, with one cough and a barely-disguised snigger, Ron trampled right over the moment with all the finesse of a rampaging bull._

_Draco turned his now steely gaze on Harry's companion for the first time since entering the compartment. “Think my name's funny, do you? No need to ask who you are. My father told me all the Weasleys have red hair, freckles and more children than they can afford.” Giving Ron a disdainful once-over, Draco turned back to Harry. “You'll soon find out some wizarding families are much better than others, Potter. You don't want to go making friends with the wrong sort. I can help you there.” And to Harry's surprise, Draco held out his hand._

_Harry stared at it in silence. He didn't know why, but something in the back of his mind was telling him this was important. He glanced across at Ron. The redhead shrugged at him, and Harry somehow knew that whatever he did, he couldn't be friends with both boys. Neither of them would allow it; in fact, Draco was outright forcing him to choose._

_Common sense was screaming at him that the down-to-earth, funny and extremely likeable Ron Weasley, who he had known all of a few hours, would be a much better friend than someone who was so spoiled and conceited that they put Dudley in the shade. And Ron's family had all been so nice to him, treating him like one of their own instead of the complete stranger that he was. For the first time in his life, he had glimpsed what being part of a loving family might be like and he wasn't ready to let go of that feeling._

_But the grin he had been about to direct at Ron froze and died before it had time to form. Scabbers had climbed onto Ron's shoulder and was peering at Harry, his whiskers twitching and his long tail looped around the back of Ron's neck, the tip dangling down over his other shoulder. He frowned at the image; something about it made him feel uneasy, yet he couldn't begin to explain what, or why. It made him so uneasy, in fact, that he dragged his gaze away. Draco was still standing before him, hand outstretched, patiently waiting. Harry's eyes rose to meet his. The shy smile returned, and with it came the answer Harry was looking for. As much as he liked Ron, and hoped that somehow they could still be friends, he couldn't imagine what it would feel like to have this boy with the silver eyes look at him with the same animosity with which he had regarded Ron. He stood slowly, his own rather hesitant smile reflecting Draco's as he reached for his hand..._

Harry sat bolt upright in bed, breathing heavily, having been ripped from the dream moments before his hand closed around Draco's. He held that same hand against his chest as he struggled to pull air into his straining lungs. “Gods,” he whispered raggedly, shivering as the bed sheets fell to his waist and the cold air of the dormitory permeated his damp t-shirt, chilling the sheen of sweat covering his body.

Now that the inevitable war was no longer something that would happen 'one day', Harry had found himself thinking more and more about Draco and what could have been. This wasn't the only dream about him that he'd had since term began, but it was by far the most troubling. They had started on the first night, each one broken and in pieces, jumbled almost beyond recognition, reflecting what had happened five years ago in Madam Malkin's and on the Hogwarts Express. Harry had seen for the first time the look of disappointment on Draco's face when he had turned down his offer of friendship, before it was hidden from that moment on behind a sneering mask of hatred.

This latest one, however, was vastly different. It had been clear, vivid. Whole. And it had brought back memories of things he had tried hard to forget. The handshake might have been a lie, but the shy smile and the silver eyes shining at him were as real as the small bespectacled little boy who had found them so mesmerising he couldn't speak. Harry smiled to himself in the darkness. There were times, even now, when Draco made him feel like that eleven-year-old again, awkward and tongue-tied.

He thought back to the Draco he had first met in Madam Malkin's. What he had disliked about him then, for fear of him turning out to be another Dudley, he realised now he wouldn't change. Not in the slightest. He was arrogant, yes. Conceited, spoiled, full of self-importance. But that was Draco Malfoy, and somehow Harry had fallen in love with him regardless.

Two years of sniping at each other, juvenile threats and countless run-ins had followed that initial journey to Hogwarts, meaning Draco was a constant fixture in Harry's life, and by the time third year had started, a constant fixture in his head too. He wasn't even sure when things had changed; it had just _happened_ , a slow, gradual process that he hadn't been aware of until it was much too late. Harry wished he could hate him, if for no other reason than his entire bloody family supported Voldemort. It would make his already complicated life just that little bit simpler if he did. But whilst Draco infuriated him like no one else ever could, especially when the things he said or did placed more barriers between them, Harry couldn't bring himself to feel hatred. Only anger. Anger, and an ever-deepening sense of loss.

Harry sighed heavily, knowing he should force his thoughts away from that particular minefield. One day he would have to face his feelings head on, but for now it was far too distracting, and therefore dangerous. The dream, however, hadn't only left him with reawakened memories, but something much more real and tangible. He pressed the heel of his hand into his groin and couldn't help the groan that it elicited. 

Harry froze in shock. Someone – Neville, he thought – muttered in their sleep in one of the other beds and he held his breath, fearing he had been heard. But no one else stirred in the silence and Harry, satisfied that he had gotten away with his moment of indiscretion, tried desperately to lose his arousal, pulling every less than desirable image he could muster into his head and very nearly succeeding but for his traitorous mind, which decided to feed him an image of Draco in the library that afternoon, sucking on a sugar quill whilst he studied with Blaise and Pansy. _Sod it_ , he thought, digging under his pillow for his wand. He muttered a hasty silencing spell, threw his wand down and sighed in relief as his fingers pushed inside his pyjama bottoms and made contact.

But the relief was short-lived. Each stroke seemed to bring nothing but frustration, and the harder and faster he worked his fist, the more dissatisfied he felt. He bit down hard on his lower lip and willed his body to respond, but he knew by now it was useless. Harry swore under his breath, knowing there was no other option. He closed his eyes and fell back onto his bed, surrendering to the only thing that ever brought him to completion. His head filled with silky blond hair trailing down his body as soft lips pressed a meandering line of kisses from his chest, across his stomach and downwards. Pale hands tugged at his pyjamas and Harry raised his hips, his own hands being guided by the ones in his mind. Silver eyes lifted to meet his, a hint of a smirk in their depths, and suddenly his own fingers became longer, thinner, wrapping around him firmly, determined not to be dragged away. The blond hair dipped and splayed out over his abdomen, and as Harry's thumb swept over the leaking head of his erection, so a warm wet tongue did likewise.

“Gods...” Harry murmured, thrusting into his fist as the tongue gave way to an eager mouth which slid down over his entire length in one smooth movement, blond hair pressing into the coarse dark hair at its base. Harry arched his back off the bed, tipping his head back into his pillow, giving himself over to his frighteningly vivid imagination. And when he came moments later, hard and desperate, Draco's name fell from his lips in a ragged breath, safe in the knowledge that no one would hear.

* * *

“So, have you decided who you're going with yet?”

Hermione had promised herself that the next person to ask her that question would find themselves hexed in two hundred and fifty-six wild and wonderful ways. The fact that it was Ron doing the asking this time was possibly the only thing that stopped her. She gritted her teeth and turned to him. 

It was Tuesday evening and the pair were huddled together in the Quidditch stands, shivering in the rough wind that had blown up out of nowhere. The Gryffindor team had just finished their first training session, to which Ron had insisted on dragging her along. He no longer played as their keeper; he had relinquished that position after last term, when a few chance saves had helped Gryffindor claim victory over Ravenclaw and lift the Quidditch cup. Having basked in the adulation for a number of weeks, he had decided it would be better to go out on a high rather than push his new-found luck too far.

“Let me assure you, Ron, that when I do find a partner you and Harry will be the first to know.” 

Ron cast her a sidelong glance. “What about Harry?” 

“What about him?”

“Why not go with him?”

Hermione sighed impatiently. “You know why. Cho's already asked him.” 

“Yes, but apparently she changed her mind,” Ron persisted. “She's going with Michael Corner now.”

Hermione's eyes flew to Harry, who put his hand up to acknowledge her as he sailed past on his broomstick. “When did this happen?” 

“Last night, while you were at your committee meeting. Didn't he tell you?” 

She shook her head, a frown settling over her brow as she watched Harry circling leisurely in the air. He said something to Katie Bell, one of Gryffindor's chasers, and the two of them laughed together. He certainly didn't seem too upset by it. Maybe she _should_ ask him to be her partner; at least that way they would both have a good time, without the added pressure of dates.

But as Harry flew from her immediate vision, her eyes focused on the stand on the other side of the pitch and the Winter's Ball was immediately forgotten. The Slytherin team were lounging around, seemingly oblivious to the increasingly rough weather. Draco Malfoy's blond head stood out starkly against the shadowed seats. As she watched, he stood, exchanged a few pleasantries with his team mates, then walked away. 

She peered down at her watch and her stomach sank. It was close to the time that she had reluctantly agreed upon this morning to meet for their first rehearsal. She had _not_ been looking forward to this. 

“...sure he had his reasons,” Ron was saying to her. 

“Reasons for what?” she mumbled, her eyes flicking back to Draco.

“Not telling you.”

“Who?”

Ron gave her a strange look. “Harry?”

“Oh right...” she muttered, not entirely sure what he meant. 

Ron followed her gaze to where the Slytherin seeker was disappearing from view down the steps. He grimaced sympathetically. “Can't you get out of it?”

Hermione grunted. “I wish I could, but I can't.” 

“Why not?” Ron asked, as they stood and began making their own way from the stands. 

Hermione wrapped her scarf tightly around her neck and proceeded to explain the real reason behind herself and Draco being placed on the Winter's Ball Committee. “This is strictly between us,” she added. “I don't even want Harry to know; he has enough to worry about.”

Ron nodded in compliance. “That's not very fair on you, though,” he said, “forcing you to spend time with that arrogant scrawny-arsed hedge-pig just to keep him out of the way.”

“Ron!” Hermione admonished, biting back the laugh that threatened to escape. 

He shrugged. “I thought it summed him up perfectly.”

Hermione grinned wryly and shook her head, but her face quickly grew serious again. “Maybe it isn't fair,” she continued, “ but this isn't about me. Think about Harry, how fair is all this on _him_? All the hard work he's putting in, just for the pleasure of facing Voldemort again.”

Ron fell silent at the truth of her words. 

Her tone softened. “I'll do anything I can to help him. No matter what. I'm determined that Malfoy won't have a clue what's going on right under his nose.” 

“I wish there was something _I_ could do,” Ron said quietly, staring down at his feet.

Hermione turned to face him, walking backwards, her hair whipping across her face. “There is. Keep a really close eye on him. The Time Turner isn't as simple as Harry made out. When I used it for a prolonged period, I started to feel like my mind wasn't my own.”

Ron's brow wrinkled in confusion; he couldn't recall her mentioning that before. “How do you mean?” 

She shrugged. “I don't know, it's difficult to explain. It seemed like feelings and emotions were exaggerated... magnified to a disproportionate level.” 

Ron thought back to the incident in Divination in their third year, when Hermione had been using the Time Turner, and her uncharacteristic behaviour towards Sybill Trelawney suddenly made sense. “Okay, I'll do that.” 

“And make sure he gets a good night's sleep every night. That's really important or his whole body clock will be all over the place.”

“Sure, Hermione,” Ron retorted, sarcastically. “I'll sit on the end of his bed and watch him all night. I'm sure he'll sleep peacefully knowing that.”

Hermione rolled her eyes in exasperation, to which Ron responded with a sudden lopsided grin. “I'll do what I can,” he assured her. 

She returned his grin with a smile and grabbed his arm, planting a small kiss on his cheek. “I know you will,” she whispered in his ear. Her smile widened when she saw the blush she'd caused. “Anyway, I'd better get going. I'll see you later!” she called over her shoulder as she walked away.

* * *

“You're late.”

Hermione had peeked into the Transfiguration classroom before entering and thought it to be empty, so the voice that emerged from behind the door as she pushed it open almost made her jump out of her skin. She whipped around and came face to face with a laughing Draco Malfoy. “Hanging about in dark corners, Malfoy?” she countered, scowling at his reaction. “Isn't that just your style.” 

“What would you know, Granger?” he drawled, his eyes flickering over her. He sneered at her unkempt appearance. “Do they not have combs in the Muggle world?” 

Her hands instantly flew to her windswept hair. It had always been a sore spot with her and he made a point of exploiting the fact whenever he could, knowing it was guaranteed to get a rise out of her. But not this time. With great effort, she forced her hands back down. “When you're ready to start,” she declared curtly, “perhaps you could let me know...”

Draco watched her march over to a nearby desk, a sly smile spreading across his face. _Oh, don't worry,_ he thought, _I'll let you know._ Slipping his wand from his sleeve, he muttered, “Amoveo.”

Hermione hit the floor with a shocked gasp as all the desks and stools – including the one she had been about to sit on – suddenly picked themselves up and flew to the edges of the room. “You bloody git!” she spat, staring up at Draco as he found reason to laugh at her expense for the second time in as many minutes. 

He raised a mocking eyebrow. “Language, Granger. Your vocabulary leaves a lot to be desired.” 

She glared daggers at him. “Oh, believe me, Malfoy, keep this up and you may just be surprised!”

His eyes glittered in response. “That sounds like an offer too good to refuse.” 

Childish though it was, her first instinct was to pull a face at him. 

He sauntered over to her, rolling his eyes. “You've been spending too much time with the weasel, you're starting to look like him as well as sound like him.” He grinned down at her. “A little bit of time spent in more refined company is exactly what you need.”

“What on earth am I doing here with you, then?” she seethed in reply. 

He chose to ignore that, holding out his hand instead. Hermione lifted her chin and got to her feet by herself, pointedly snubbing his offer of assistance. “Let's just get on with this, Malfoy. Neither of us particularly wants to be here.”

Shrugging out of his tailored jacket, Draco chuckled. “Now who's the eager beaver, Granger?” he taunted. 

_Ten weeks_ , she thought to herself as she watched him turn away and drape his jacket carefully over the back of Professor McGonagall's chair. How in Merlin's name was she going to get through this without hexing him into the next millennium? And if she didn't break first, it would only be a matter of time before he did. Still, there was no getting out of it.

To make matters worse, it appeared that McGonagall wasn't the only teacher with ulterior motives at work where she and Draco were concerned. In Divination yesterday morning, she and Draco had been pushed into working together once again, and the same thing had happened in Charms immediately after – something which didn't go unnoticed by very many people. Harry had been especially irritated by it, particularly as it had left him with no alternative but to work with Pansy Parkinson. 

When Snape, no less, had then insisted she work with Draco in yesterday afternoon's Potions lesson, Hermione no longer had any doubts that there was more to this than what she had been told. None of the teachers were being at all subtle in what they were doing, which given what McGonagall had said didn't make much sense. 

Worst of all, however, worse even than the Potions lesson spent under the unnerving scrutiny of Snape, was the Astronomy lesson that same night. A midnight class, held in the cramped room at the top of Astronomy Tower, during which the entire time had been devoted to gazing at stars together. No, that was definitely the worst. And if one more person made a remark to her and Draco about unexplored rings she would quite likely push that person off the top of said Astronomy Tower. Of course, it hadn't helped matters when in the middle of a particularly quiet moment, Draco _bloody_ Malfoy had leaned away from his telescope and declared lazily, “Hey, Granger, I think I've found Uranus.” The entire class had erupted into laughter and Hermione, acutely aware of his hand resting behind her on her seat, had been fervently grateful for the low light in the room which hid her blazing cheeks. It was small consolation that his quip had earned him a week of detentions.

She suddenly felt quite self-conscious as he turned to face her again, bringing her attention back to the here and now. Folding her arms defensively, she tried to ignore the way his cool eyes were studying her and focused on what he was saying instead.

“I take it from that display after Sunday's meeting that you don't know how to dance?”

She gritted her teeth. “I've never learned.” 

He smirked at her. “And there we were, thinking Gryffindor's golden student knew everything from the mating habits of a puffskein, to the size of Snape's–”

“Malfoy...” she interrupted in a warning tone. 

He grinned at her in the most infuriatingly smug manner imaginable, but wisely chose not to finish that sentence. 

“And you _do_ know how to dance?” she scoffed, trying to remember back to the Yule Ball. Her attention at the time, however, had been very much focused on Viktor Krum, not Draco.

“Of course,” he proclaimed. “The Malfoys are a highly influential family; people insist that we attend the most important social occasions. It wouldn't do to have the sole heir stumbling around the dance floor like some three-legged imbecile with no sense of timing or rhythm.” He grinned meaningfully.

“And what sort of career do you ever hope to achieve by knowing how to dance?” she mocked. “At least what I know will prove useful in the future.” 

His whole demeanour suddenly changed with that question, his face tightening, his eyes staring right through her to a different time and place. His voice, when he spoke, was distant. “I won't need a career when I'm older, Granger... I already have my future planned for me.” 

Hermione felt a shiver run down her spine at the emotionless words and the detached gaze which accompanied them. He surely wasn't referring to... well, what she thought he was referring to? 

But in the blink of an eye, the moment was over. The smug expression slipped back into place. “My family are so rich, I won't need to work.” 

It was so easy while they were here at Hogwarts, surrounded by people her own age, people she had grown up with, to forget that there were potential Death Eaters among them. People that one day she might have to face in the second war, a day which seemed nearer than ever now. Hermione examined Draco's pale unblemished skin, framed by his golden hair that at this moment fell across his shadowed eyes in a disconcertingly attractive way. If the time came, would she be able to look into that same face...

And kill him? 

“What?” 

She jumped at his question, and it took a moment before she realised she had been staring at him. “Nothing,” she mumbled. 

“Well can you at least try to look like you're paying attention? Like I said, I'm not having your ineptitude showing me up at this bloody dance.” 

“I'm listening.”

“Good. So,” he continued, “do you know anything at all about the waltz?”

“Yes,” she replied, and proceeded to quote a book she had discovered in the Muggle Literature section of the library. “It began as a peasant dance, originating in Vienna and spreading into Germany where its name means 'to turn'. It was initially banned in England during the early 19th century due to–” 

“Wonderful, Granger,” Draco interrupted. “That's really going to help.”

She smiled back serenely. “Well, you did ask.”

“What I _meant_ was do you know anything about the dance itself, or am I going to have to teach you the whole damned thing from scratch?” The impatience in his voice was starting to become apparent. 

“I know it's danced in a ¾ time.”

“I suppose that's a start.” He looked at her expectantly. 

“That's it.”

He rolled his eyes. “Scratch it is then. Come over here.”

Hermione looked at him in exaggerated surprise. “What? You aren't going to chase me around the room again?” she asked sarcastically as she approached him. 

“Enjoy that did you, Granger?” he leered. “Well, who knows, I may indulge your little fantasy again at some point.”

Hermione scowled at him. “I wouldn't if I were you, unless you have a desire to become reacquainted with your ferret form.” 

He held out his left hand. When Hermione made no move, he sighed irritably. “Hand, Granger.”

Grudgingly, she placed her right hand in his palm. 

His fingers closed tightly around hers. “Now, your other hand needs to be just below my shoulder, fingers around the back, thumb at the front.”

She cast him a derogatory look as she was forced to step closer. “You're stating the obvious, Malfoy.” 

“Just working at the level of my student,” he said smoothly. 

Hermione pressed her lips together into a thin line. She had wondered how long it would take before he made a gibe about the fact that he was teaching her something. 

“No, you need to be closer than that.” She had managed to manoeuvre into his arms without any other contact but now he pulled her closer, a little to his right, which brought half of her body into contact with his. She tensed instantly, something which didn't go unnoticed by her partner. He laughed. “Fucking hell, Granger, it's common knowledge that you're as frigid as a hailstone in the Arctic, but isn't that taking it a little too far?”

As he had her favoured hand in a tight grip, and the other wouldn't have dealt a slap hard enough for her liking, Hermione did the next best thing and gave him a sharp kick on the leg. 

Draco swore loudly, his eyes squeezing shut as the pain shot through him. Grasping her roughly by the shoulders, he shook her. “Do you have a fucking death wish or something?”

“Just be grateful that wasn't my knee somewhere else!” she retorted. “You wouldn't have been able to dance your blasted waltz for the next ten years, never mind at the ball!”

“And which 'somewhere else' would that have been?” Draco asked, a wicked glint in his eye nonetheless.

“Where do you think?” she snapped.

“That wouldn't have been wise, not with our wedding night approaching...”

Hermione tried to pull free of him but he had no intention of letting her go. “Enough with the bloody wedding barbs, Malfoy!” she hissed. “If I hear one more, I promise you a life term in Azkaban will be more than worth the consequences.” 

Draco's chuckle died suddenly, his eyes wandering over her face. She glared back at him, growing increasingly uneasy at the silence. Then, abruptly, he straightened and pulled her back into the waltz position. “Okay, you have to step back with your right foot.”

Hermione looked down, grateful for something else to focus on. She took a faltering step backwards, Draco's left foot following hers. 

“And your other foot goes slightly back and to the left.” He nodded, watching closely. “Yes, that's right. Now that, Granger, is a basic waltz step. Keep going...” They repeated the step several more times. “Okay, this time we're going to turn to the left.”

Within half an hour, Hermione was managing a pretty passable execution of a waltz and her confidence was growing. But as she started to relax into the flowing movement, she suddenly became aware of Draco's close proximity. With each step they took, his inner leg brushed against hers, and the turns they were now taking were bringing their lower bodies into fleeting contact. With the slightest of movements, she straightened the arm of the hand he was holding, enabling her to place more distance between themselves. Her steps started becoming more and more exaggerated, until there was so much space between them that Hagrid could have squeezed through and joined in.

Eventually, Draco pushed her away in exasperation. She staggered backwards in surprise. “What was that for?” she demanded, when she had regained her balance. 

“Granger, how the hell do you expect us to dance together at this ball if you're on one side of the Great Hall and I'm on the other?”

She flushed. “We don't need to dance _that_ closely though.”

He grinned at her and she immediately bristled. “I know what you're up to, Malfoy.” 

“Do you?” he leered. “What's that?” 

“More of your silly, immature games. And I refuse to be a part of them.”

His grin widened. “Oh, come on, Granger. You know you enjoy it. Anyway,” he continued, before she had time to reply, “the dance is actually danced closer than that. I was going easy on you.”

“Yes, of course you were! And you're always so considerate aren't you?” She laughed in his face. “I doubt you even understand the meaning of the word, especially with Lucius Malfoy for a father!” 

A horrible silence descended, and Hermione sensed that she had touched a raw nerve. Draco idolised his father way too much to be able to brush that off.

“Oh, I can assure you, Granger,” he said in a carefully controlled, very calm voice, “I won't make the mistake of going easy on you next time.” They glared at each other for a moment, and then Hermione was left staring at his back as he turned and stalked from the room.

* * *

“There you are!” Hermione dropped a small pile of books onto the table beside Harry and slid into the seat beside him. “I've been searching everywhere for you.”

Harry gave her a quick glance before throwing his quill down and leaning back in his chair with a sigh. “Where else did you expect to find me on a Wednesday evening?” he asked somewhat ironically, gesturing at the half-finished Potions essay laid out in front of him.

“Not in the library,” she replied with a smile. “This has to be a first for you.”

“First time for everything, I guess.” Harry stretched the knotted muscles in his shoulders with a wince. “What did you want?”

“Hmm?”

“You said you were looking for me?”

“Oh, yes. That. It's about the ball.”

Harry pulled a face. “Whatever you're going to say, don't bother. It's irrelevant to me, since I won't be going.”

“Why not?”

Harry looked at her incredulously. “Aside from the fact that I have more important things to be doing with my time than wasting it on some stupid fancy dress ball? Sorry,” he added as an afterthought.

Hermione waved a hand dismissively. “No need to apologise, Harry.”

“I just don't fancy making a prat of myself again. The Yule Ball was bad enough. Having to get dressed up in some ridiculous outfit as well..? No thanks.”

Hermione grimaced. “I can assure you, I'm not to blame for that.”

“I never said you were.”

“For what it's worth,” she said, pulling a book towards her and flicking through it idly, “I think it's a ludicrous idea. Unfortunately, I was outvoted due to some blonde airhead's ability to charm the pants off her boyfriend.”

Harry regarded Hermione in amusement. “The Ravenclaw seventh-year?”

Hermione nodded. “Celestine Bal _four_ ,” she said in her poshest voice, then wrinkled her nose. “It was her idea, although the way Malfoy jumped on the bandwagon you could have been forgiven for thinking he came up with it. He seemed more keen on it than she did.”

Harry leaned his forearms on the table and poked at his discarded quill, pushing it around with his finger. “Really?”

Hermione looked up from her book. Although he appeared indifferent, there had been a spark of interest underlying the question. She turned in her seat to face him, one elbow resting on the table, the other on the back of her chair. “What's the real reason you don't want to go? Is it because of Cho?”

Harry continued to push the quill around without answering.

“Ron mentioned that she's asked someone else now,” Hermione pressed.

“Ron has a big mouth,” Harry replied forcefully. His hand stilled suddenly, then pushed the quill away, out of his reach. “I didn't mean that,” he said quietly.

“I know.” He looked so wretched as he slumped back in his chair that Hermione reached for his hand and clasped it between hers, stroking the back of it with her thumb in a soothing gesture. “What's really troubling you, Harry? Is it something to do with the prophecy?”

Harry shook his head, a little too quickly to be anything other than suspicious. 

“I don't believe you,” Hermione stated simply.

“Well, not exactly,” he amended. “It would be stupid of me to pretend it's not bothering me. But it's more than that, you know? It's everything that's been happening lately. Sirius, my aunt. The Burrow. I suppose it's all been a bit too much.”

Hermione nodded sympathetically. “And the Time Turner won't be helping matters.”

“It isn't,” Harry admitted. “It's only been a week and already I feel like I'm all over the place. Emotionally, mentally, physically...”

“Which is precisely why I think the ball would be good for you. One night of fun, a chance to forget about everything for a few hours. Trust me, I know what I'm talking about.”

Harry glanced sideways at her. “Is there any use in me saying no?”

“No.”

“I don't know, Hermione, that sort of thing isn't really... me.”

“Would it help if I told you it's a costume ball, not fancy dress?”

“Is there a difference?”

“Costume balls are slightly more... refined.”

Harry grinned at her. “At Hogwarts? Good luck with that.”

Encouraged by his sudden upturn in mood, Hermione pushed her advantage. “What if I asked you to be my partner, would that change your mind?”

Harry frowned. “Me?”

“Yes. That's why I was looking for you, to ask you.”

“But what about Malfoy? I thought you were going with him?”

“Merlin, no! That might have been the intention, but I put my foot down and refused. McGonagall relented and said I could choose whoever I wanted.”

“And I'm the best of what's left?” Harry asked petulantly. His face, however, had broken out into the first genuine smile she had seen for weeks.

“Well, there was Zacharias Smith... And I suppose you could count Crabbe and Goyle too, although they weren't really options. Oh, and– Hey!” Hermione was cut off mid-sentence by Harry's potions essay thwacking her over the head.

“You asked for that,” Harry grinned.

Hermione smiled. “To be honest, there's no one else I would rather go with,” she said softly. “So, I suppose I should be thanking Cho for freeing up my date...” She gazed hopefully at Harry.

Harry chuckled at the expression on her face. “Actually, it's me you need to thank. I was the one who told Cho I wouldn't be going with her, not the other way round.”

“Does that mean..?”

Harry flung his hands up in surrender. “Yes, okay. I'll go with you. But,” he added as Hermione leaned across to hug him, “on one condition. I'm not wearing anything that involves a lacy shirt or tight trousers.”

Hermione fell back into her seat. “What about a kilt?” she joked, and the pair of them collapsed into laughter.

On the other side of the library, concealed behind a row of books, Draco watched with narrowed eyes as the two embraced. His fingers curled into tight fists at his side, so tight that his nails dug into his palms.

“They look very cosy,” Blaise commented wryly over his shoulder as Madam Pince marched across to the two Gryffindors and appeared to tell them off for making too much noise.

“Go away,” Draco muttered.

“Actually, I was here first. But seriously, Draco, do you have any idea what you're getting into?”

“And what would you suggest I do?” Draco scoffed. “Go back to him, tell him I won't do it and throw myself at his mercy? If you can't see the flaw in that, then Potter isn't the only one around here that requires glasses.”

“You know what I think you should do,” Blaise responded. “I've said it enough times. Get out now, while you still can. Put some distance between yourself and all that crap.”

“What, like you have?” Draco turned away from Harry and Hermione long enough to sneer at his friend. ”You happen to have one luxury I don't. Absent parents. Tell me, what number husband is your mother on now?”

Blaise shrugged. “Eight? Nine? That's beside the point, though.”

“No it isn't. That _is_ the point. Your mother couldn't care less. Consider yourself fortunate.”

“I'll bear that in mind.” 

Draco shook his head as Hermione stood and gathered her books. “If my father even knew we were having this conversation...”

“Then distance yourself from your family too, if you must.”

Draco turned the full force of his glacial stare onto Blaise. “And do what, exactly? Throw myself at Dumbledore's mercy instead? That's almost as ridiculous as your last suggestion.”

“Almost, but not quite. Doesn't that tell you something?”

“Yes. That you're out of your mind.”

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why am I out of my mind?”

Draco sighed wearily. “Because it's too late for that. Much too late. Now get lost, Zabini, I don't want to discuss it any further.”

“It's never too late, Draco.”

“Oh, for fuck's sake. I told you to fuck off, so fucking go.”

“Strictly speaking, you didn't. But I can take a hint,” Blaise added as Draco glared at him. “Just remember, you can count on me whatever you do.” He glanced a final time at the object of Draco's attention. “You're playing with fire though, and it's you who will end up getting burned. Not to mention hurt.”

Draco growled in frustration but Blaise was already strolling for the doors. He watched as Hermione reached them at the same time and Blaise stepped back with a grin, waving her through with a grand sweeping gesture. _Throw himself on Dumbledore's mercy_. Draco almost laughed out loud at the notion. His eyes returned to Harry as the boy stared blankly ahead of him. _That was never going to happen_ , he thought bitterly. _Never_.

* * *

Hermione seriously considered not showing up for rehearsal later that evening.

During their Ancient Runes class that morning, Draco had informed her of Slytherin's decision to reschedule their Quidditch practise for that night, but how he fully expected her to be waiting in the Transfiguration classroom for him afterwards. 

Her response had been to surreptitiously charm his bag, so that at frequent intervals during the day the flap would spring open like a mouth and demand of the nearest person if there had ever been a more arrogant git than Draco Malfoy. He had eventually left it in his dormitory when a Hufflepuff seventh-year declared that the only person he could think of who came close was Gilderoy Lockheart. 

What changed Hermione's mind, though, was seeing Harry huddled up in a corner of the Gryffindor common room, poring over his Transfiguration and Charms essays. With a heavy sigh, she had veered away from the comfy armchair by the fire and slowly made her way through the corridors to McGonagall's classroom. She wasn't going to let him down.

So here she was, staring out of a window into the dark night, waiting for Draco to show up. She had just been able to make out the Slytherin team returning from the Quidditch pitch some twenty minutes ago, amid a ferocious thunderstorm; he should easily have been here by now. She turned away and leaned against the window sill, tapping her foot impatiently on the floor.

It turned out to be another fifteen minutes before the door finally opened. 

“About bloody time, Malfoy!” Hermione was far from happy. She was in the process of gearing herself up to give him an ear bashing he would never forget when she noticed that the person who had entered wasn't actually him. She groaned in frustration. “What do you want?”

“I think the words you are looking for are, 'Hello, Blaise, how are you this evening?'”

“Hello, Blaise,” Hermione echoed. “And goodbye, Blaise. You know where the door is.”

Blaise stared at her in mock disbelief. “Your manners are appalling, Granger.”

“Drop it, Zabini. If you have something to say, then say it.”

“Fine. Message from lover boy – he's going to be late.”

Hermione scowled at his choice of words. “He's already late.”

“Yeah, well he's going to be more late.”

“Wonderful.” Hermione pushed away from the sill and snatched up her discarded sweatshirt.

“That's the bad news,” Blaise continued.

“Really? It sounded like good news to me.”

“Oh, well in that case you're going to love the good news.”

Hermione stopped and eyed Blaise suspiciously. “Why? What is the 'good' news?”

“Draco's asked me to take his place for half an hour or so.”

“What?”

“I'm to keep you entertained until he gets here. And,” he added, retreating to the door as Hermione scoffed at him and made a beeline for it, “I'm to make sure you wait.”

“I don't think so, Zabini. I'm not sitting around at his beck and call, and certainly not with you.” She reached behind him for the handle but he grabbed hold of her wrist, preventing her from leaving. “I wouldn't if I were you, Granger. Draco's not in the best of moods. His broomstick was hit by a bludger and it came off a lot worse than the bludger did.”

“So?”

Blaise grinned malevolently. “So he's out for blood, and yours would do perfectly.”

Hermione paused briefly to consider his words. The threat didn't worry her, but having already annoyed Draco that week, she didn't think it would be wise to push her luck any further. The situation was difficult enough as it was. She snatched her hand free and wheeled back into the room. “Fine, he has ten minutes maximum. If he's not here by then, he can stick what's left of his broomstick where the sun doesn't shine for all I care.” Blaise chuckled to himself and Hermione turned on him. “Is there something you find funny?”

He grinned again and held out his hand. “You have spirit, I'll give you that.”

Hermione eyed him warily.

“It's my job to keep you entertained,” he said with a shrug. “Draco's not the only Slytherin who can dance, you know.”

Hermione laughed shortly. “If you think I'm going to dance with you, you can think again. I'm only dancing with Malfoy because I have to.”

“Come on, Granger, you might learn something. Draco said something about you being... what was it... oh yeah. Frigid. I'll help you warm up for him.” He grinned wickedly at the shocked expression on her face and as she raised her hand to slap him, he grabbed her wrist again and muttered, “Camena Animus.”

Hermione's last fully cohesive thought before the spell took over was that when she saw Draco Malfoy, he was going to wish he had been struck unconscious by the same bludger that wrecked his broomstick. But then a fast-paced rhythmic beat began to reverberate around the room, and all thought of Draco was forgotten. She glanced nervously at the door. McGonagall's office was just down the corridor; she was going to have a fit!

As if he understood the expression on her face, Blaise laughed. “Relax, Granger, no one else can hear it.” He stepped closer. “Give me your hands.”

Despite the sheer volume of noise in her head, his voice was loud and clear. Hermione placed her hands in his without a moment's hesitation.

“Now, listen to the music. Feel its power; the rise and fall when you breathe, the ebb and flow in your veins.” He accentuated his words with gentle squeezes of her fingers.

Hermione had no idea what he was going on about, but it didn't really matter as she suddenly found herself captivated by the rich, hypnotic tones of his voice.

“Can you feel it?” he asked, struggling to keep a straight face.

“Mmm,” she replied vaguely.

“Close your eyes,” he murmured. “That's it... Just let yourself go.”

And then she _did_ feel it. What he was trying so ineptly to explain. The music slammed into her with a strength that almost took her legs out from beneath her. It washed over her as a tidal wave sweeps down onto a beach, dragging her out to its remote expanses, small and helpless in its enormity.

As she fought needlessly to breathe, Blaise's arms slipped around her waist, drawing her into him. Instinctively her arms reached around his neck. Had she been fully aware of her actions, she would have been horrified to know she was clinging to him like he was the sole thing keeping her alive. But she didn't care. She was buzzing with something she had never experienced before in her life, and she was giving herself up to it completely.

She felt herself moving, swaying in time with Blaise until her confidence grew and then, without warning, he whipped her around, spinning her, handling her with the consummate ease of a natural dancer. She gasped when he leaned her over backwards, so low that her tousled hair brushed the floor. And cried out as, with a quick adjustment, he let go of her and swiftly grabbed her hands, pulling her up before she could fall. 

Then she was in his arms again, his left hand holding her palm over his chest, his free arm sliding around her hips and encouraging her closer. Every step he took she was following without fault, yet she wasn't even thinking about them, just going where it felt right. 

“See what you can do when you let yourself?” he whispered. 

She smiled in elation but her reply was lost as he span her away from him.

* * *

Blaise stepped aside with a wink as Draco moved in. “Told you it would work.”

Draco grunted in reply. 

“She's all yours,” Blaise continued. “Don't do anything I wouldn't do.”

“You're not giving me very many boundaries, Blaise,” Draco replied bluntly.

“Point taken.” Blaise grinned. “Remember, keep the detachment charm up or it won't just be her you end up making a fool of.”

“Yeah, yeah, you've already told me that countless times. Now get lost.”

Blaise slipped out the door, still grinning inanely.

Draco moved swiftly to catch Hermione's wrist as she stumbled out of her wild spins across the classroom floor, giggling incessantly like a little girl tasting her first drop of alcohol. 

The moment Blaise left the room, the music died away. Hermione's giggles subsided with it and confusion bloomed in her eyes. “Wha-?” she began. But Draco swiftly muttered his own enchantment. 

Camena Animus, or Song of the Soul. He smiled grimly. Trust Blaise to be into this kind of New Age Magic crap.

As soon as the words had been spoken, the music picked up again. Gone was the rhythmic pulse, much to Draco's relief. But in its place was something slightly more disconcerting. A slow, enveloping harmony seeped into his head and he very nearly gaped. He understood enough about the spell from what Blaise had told him to know that each time it was cast, it attuned itself to the person that had cast it and the situation they were in. When it was cast on two people at the same time, as he had just done, it attuned according to the caster's reaction towards their companion. Being Hermione Granger, he hadn't expected the spell to work at all, or in the very least produce something reminiscent of a mandrake's screeching, with hopefully the same effect. He had been really looking forward to seeing that. But this..? 

His eyes wandered to the girl swaying at the end of his arm. Her eyes were closed; the enchantment had already captured her. He couldn't explain how, but she looked different. Sure, it was the same bushy hair, but this hair was dampened with the sweat created by Blaise's energetic pace. Tiny strands clung to her pink cheeks, the rest tumbling past her shoulders in loose waves. Her t-shirt stuck to her clammy body, just beneath the gentle swell of her breasts, revealing the faintest flash of white skin above the waistband of her black sweat pants. 

He couldn't remember ever seeing her like this before. 

That thought jerked him back to reality. Of course, this was all due to the bloody spell. He silently cursed Blaise for not warning him of the other effects it would have, vowing to make him pay for the discrepancy. But then another thought occurred to him. Would it make Hermione see him any differently too? A roguish smile curved his lips. He had promised her he wouldn't go easy... This could be poetic justice for what she had said about his father. 

He allowed the control he had been holding over the enchantment to slip a little, whilst maintaining the detachment that Blaise had taught him. The music filling his mind swelled in a gentle rise and fall, and Hermione swayed with it. He smiled again and pulled her inexorably into his arms. He had, after all, set this up for a purpose... to ease her past her fear of being within even five feet of a male body that didn't belong to Harry Potter or his weasel pet. The smile grew. He may as well put it to the test. 

She yielded instantly to his embrace. That was a good start. He looped her arms around his neck, not that she needed much encouragement. And when his own hands slipped around her slender waist, she bumped her hips against his tentatively. He almost let his control of everything slip at that innocuous little movement. He knew full well it was nothing more than a response to the melody surging through her, which was more than okay with him. But even so... He hoped he would at least be able to hold on to his detachment charm. Otherwise things could get out of hand.

And then he grinned maliciously. So what if he couldn't? Or more precisely didn't? No one was around. He could let it go as far as he wanted. And then enjoy seeing the look on her face afterwards when she remembered exactly what kind of dancing they'd been practising. He pondered this as he turned her with him in a slow circle. Maybe it would work to his advantage in more ways than one... He couldn't help the low rumble of laughter that escaped. Hermione giggled against his chest in response, blissfully unaware of how much events were going to turn with the disappearing remnants of a simple detachment charm.

* * *

She knew full well whose arms she was in. She had seen him watching through the door as Blaise swung her around. Had seen him enter just as Blaise released her and disappeared. She could hear loud and clear the voice screaming in her head, competing valiantly with the intoxicating, heady melody. She didn't need it to tell her that this was wrong. That the way he was holding her went against everything he believed in, irrespective of the fact that they were only dancing. That the way she was sinking into him was something she would never have done, even under a compulsion spell.

Whenever these realisations threatened to surface and tear her from this surreal state, the music would wash over her, pulling her back into its overwhelming depths, a little further each time, her grasp on reality moving further from her reach. This was like the aftermath of the tidal wave. As if it had ebbed away, leaving her to drown, being pulled under by the strength of Draco Malfoy's embrace. And yet his arms were taking away the pain, making her demise a dangerously sensual experience. Her lids fluttered open to be met by his searching gaze. 

His eyes... what had happened to them? They were normally so pale and cold, like discs of perfectly rounded ice. Now though, they were the colour of the rain-laden storm clouds outside, dark and foreboding. As if to emphasise her thoughts, a flash of lightning illuminated the room. The storm showed little sign of abating. She wondered briefly when the torches had gone out. 

But his eyes were too mesmerising and she found herself drawn back to them. She barely registered the fact that his left hand was skimming lightly up her side, the hem of her t-shirt lifting just a little with the movement. Then he was cupping her face with a feather-light touch, his thumb tracing the contours of her lips. And not once did his eyes move from hers. Not until he leaned forward, his own lips brushing softly against her neck. 

If she hadn't drowned already, she just had. She uttered his name helplessly. “Malfoy...” 

That was enough to push him over the edge. All hold on the enchantment slipped away and the music enveloped them, pulsing through them both as one...

* * *

The eyes peering through the wall widened in pure unadulterated pleasure. This was perfect, a golden opportunity for some fun. Things had been so dull since Bumbridge had been carried off into the Forbidden Forest by a mangy centaur. Something like this would certainly liven things up!

He watched as the two figures moved together, stepping and turning around each other in a dance of blatant courtship. The tall blond Slytherin, Malfoy, guiding the smaller Gryffindor girl, Granger, with intimate hands; twisting around her, spinning her away from him, then pulling her back, their bodies moulding against each other's... 

Oh yes... He nodded wickedly. This was too good an opportunity to miss. As the couple moved slowly together across the cleared space of the classroom, he flew screeching from his hiding place. 

The spell was instantly broken. Hermione, shocked at the sudden wrench from her near-intoxicated state, blinked in bewilderment. Draco, equally astonished, happened to see the small figure swooping down on them. He fell to the floor, partly to avoid him and partly because his legs were so weak that they couldn't support him. The airborne abomination kicked Hermione smartly on the side of her head, causing her to wheel around, clutching at the contact spot. If nothing else, it certainly brought her from her stupor. She stared down at Draco on the floor at her feet. What in Merlin's name was going on? 

“Malfoy and Granger, sitting in a tree, k-i-s-s-i-n-g!” the little beast cackled. “Wait until the school hears about this!” 

He whizzed over Hermione's head again but this time she had the presence of mind to duck. She looked at Draco in horror. Something had just happened, because she couldn't remember anything since gazing out of the window at the bedraggled Slytherin team returning from the Quidditch pitch. She narrowed her eyes. What had he done to her? 

But Draco was staring up at the creature preparing to dive bomb him. He scuttled to one side before it reached him and it shot straight through the floor. More cackles followed before it resurfaced a few feet away. It waved its hands wildly in the air and Hermione had to flatten herself on the floor as two stools and a desk passed forcibly through the air where her head had been, swinging round the classroom in wide arcs. Draco, meanwhile, had grabbed another stool and flung it as hard as he could at the figure. He realised too late that his mind still wasn't quite his own. 

The chair sailed straight through its intended target and smashed through the window behind him, disappearing into the rumbling storm. Before Draco even realised what was happening the creature launched itself at him again, this time armed with a large glass bottle of something decidedly foul looking. He hurled it at Draco and it scored a direct hit, shattering on his head. It smelled as foul as it looked. Another bottle appeared from nowhere and this one was flung at Hermione. She tried to roll to one side but her energy was spent. The bottle hit her square on her shoulder, soaking her left side. The little figure retreated into the walls, cackling about how 'this wasn't the end of it'.

Draco was fuming. “I'm going to fucking kill you when I get–” Then he realised what he had said. He smacked his fist on a desk, his anger quickly escalating until he let it out in an almighty shout. 

“PEEEEEEVVVVVEEEEES!!!!!!”


End file.
